


To Heal a Mind

by KleineHexe (kleinehexe36)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Betaed, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Nightmares, Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26665375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleinehexe36/pseuds/KleineHexe
Summary: After recovering from severe injury, Geralt struggles to deal with the emotional fallout of being mind controlled. While Triss is trying to find a magical way to help, Jaskier joins Geralt for some good old monster slaying. Things quickly go from bad to worse.This is a follow-up piece that deals with the aftermath of "Cursed" and will tie up some loose ends. It will explore the relationship between Geralt and Triss as well as the friendship between Geralt and Jaskier. Though it is not absolutely necessary to read the stories in the correct order, it might help :-)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Triss Merigold
Comments: 65
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my second story in the witcher-verse! As I already wrote above, this fic picks up right after the events of "Cursed". I've done my best to make it also readable for those who are not familiar with my previous work, so you can dive right in.
> 
> After getting myself acquainted with Geralt and Triss, I felt it was time to introduce one of the other main characters of the show, Jaskier. I hope that I've done him justice. Any kind of feedback is welcome, so feel free to share your thoughts in the comments, or leave kudos if you enjoyed reading. I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> Thank you so much to Sammys_Girl for betaing this. I am very grateful for your support!

It had been a while since a crowd that big had gathered in the marketplace in Vizima but considering the occasion, it probably wasn't surprising. After all, the public execution of a sorceress was something that didn't happen every day.

The square was so packed with people that some had been forced to stand in the adjacent street where they couldn't see the scaffold at all. They would have to content themselves with a brief glance at the procession that would escort the convict to the gallows, and gaze at the corpse after everything was over. The luckier ones clustered around the stage that had been erected in the center of the square. Beneath the pale autumn sky, the place was a sea of colors, the richly decorated robes of merchants and nobility mingling with the plainer clothes of dayworkers and craftsmen. Children were lifted onto the shoulders of their parents to get a better look, and the place was alive with the clamor of a thousand voices.

Geralt was watching from a distance, purposefully staying in the shadows of an overhanging balcony as he kept his eyes on the crowd. He was grateful for the autumn chill which allowed him to pull the hood of his cloak deep into his face without drawing any suspicious glances. Despite his acquittal in court, he was sure that some of the people still held a grudge against him. After all, the Alderman's son and one of the city guards had died by his sword, and there was a lot of mistrust against witchers in general. Not everybody would be willing to accept the simple truth that Geralt hadn't acted on his own free will.

Under different circumstances, he would have avoided the hanging altogether. Beyond the risk of being met with hatred and causing a scene, he simply had never been able to grasp the appeal of public executions. However, this time it was different. He had suffered greatly by the hand of the sorceress they were about to hang, and even though her power over him had been broken, the experience still haunted him. He had found it hard to admit, had hesitated quite a bit before coming to a decision, but he felt that he needed the satisfaction of seeing his tormentor meet her end. Maybe it would finally bring him some sense of closure.

He let his eyes drift across the crowd, wondering how many of them had traveled to Vizima just for this occasion. It was obvious that it wasn't just the inhabitants of the city who had gathered here but peasants from the suburbs as well. Some seemed to have brought their whole families. In a corner of the square, he spied some men in brown robes who were probably monks from the monastery up in the hills, and a bunch of unattended children perched on the pedestal of Ostrit's statue - street children, judging by the ragged state of their clothing. Excitement was written all over their faces. Geralt suspected that they didn't even know who was being executed today. They had just come for the entertainment.

After long moments, the crowd parted. From his position, Geralt couldn't see the procession as it made its way towards the scaffold, merely watched the tips of halberds bobbing across the sea of heads, but the sound of insults and catcalls directed at the convict made clear what was going on.

He set his jaw as Celaena finally emerged from the crowd, her face gaunt and pale. The shouts from the crowd grew louder as the sorceress was shoved up the wooden stairs, urged forward by the guards. She looked different than the last time he had seen her, haggard and starved, her usually meticulously bound hair hanging around her shoulders in a straggly mess. Her arms had been tied in front of her, joined by what could only be dimeritium manacles and a good amount of rope to keep them from slipping off her right wrist. Even now, a cloth bandage covered the stump of her lower arm, revealing that the injury she had sustained by Geralt's hand had not healed yet. Given her impending execution, it never would.

Geralt felt a chill creep over him as she raised her eyes and her glance swept over him without recognition. He swallowed hard, and with annoyance, he realized that he was afraid. It was an instinctive reaction, involuntary and completely irrational. Obviously, the crippled sorceress, deprived of her powers and guarded by several swordsmen didn't pose any threat. Yet he couldn't help but shift uneasily as she straightened her back and faced the crowd.

He didn't know the man who followed her onto the stage, but his ornate clothes and self-assured gait revealed him as a man of importance. Geralt suspected that he was the magistrate who had been put in charge of the execution. It was not uncommon that on an occasion like this, the crowd was addressed by the king himself, but important political business had kept him away. It was the same reason why Triss couldn't attend. Apparently, Foltest had been right in his priorities as the people didn't seem to mind at all. The only remarks he caught from the spectators around him were hateful comments against witches in general, and some morbid speculations about the time it would take her to die.

The magistrate exchanged some quiet words with the guards, then stepped towards the edge of the stage and raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. A hush fell on the crowd.

“People of Vizima,” he spoke into the silence, “we have gathered here to witness justice be done. This sorceress, Celaena von Than, has caused great harm to the citizens of our city. She has been found guilty of murder in multiple cases. Among her other crimes are arson, removal of a prisoner from the city jail, and the abduction and imprisonment of our esteemed court mage.”

Geralt was relieved when his name wasn't mentioned, just as it had been agreed upon. It was a favor that he had been granted after his innocence had been proven, and he hoped that it would help to keep a lid on this particular story. After all, it wouldn't do his reputation or that of his trade any good.

“Her deeds were especially despicable as she used witchcraft to force another to execute the murders on her behalf in order to avoid punishment. It has been a while since Vizima has seen such a number of heinous crimes, and as such -”

“Geralt!”

The word was spoken in an excited half-whisper and the witcher whipped around, startled at being addressed by his name. He raised a surprised brow when he recognized the colorfully dressed man who had managed to sneak up behind him. An elven lute was secured on his back.

The bard smiled in greeting while Geralt cast a nervous gaze at the people standing closest to them. He feared that they might have taken notice, but to his relief, their attention on the gallows seemed to be unbroken, their eyes latched onto the magistrate as he continued his speech.

“I hadn't expected to run into you here,” the bard continued. “But it is great to see you again. I haven't seen you in – what? It must have been months at least. Let's see -”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupted, voice pitched low. The way he was chattering, the bard was bound to attract attention and right now, it was the last thing Geralt wanted. “Keep your voice down, will you?”

“Right.” Jaskier smiled and put a hand to his lips. “You don't want to miss the magistrate's speech. He's doing quite a good job, isn't he?” He cast a jealous glance at the man on the stage who flourished his hands to emphasize a point. “He does have the crowd.”

Geralt returned his attention to the scaffold. Celaena stood unmoving, her face carefully controlled. Only the stiff way she held her shoulders betrayed her fear.

“It's still strange to run into you like that,” Jaskier continued, undeterred by Geralt's obvious attempt to end the conversation. “Somehow I expected you not to be interested in public executions. I mean, you being a witcher and all, you doubtlessly have seen your fill of dead bodies, so what is one more corpse to you? Besides, I believe I've heard you say once that you didn't want to get involved with the petty affairs of humans.” Geralt felt the young man's curious gaze weigh on him. “So, what brings you here?”

Geralt cast him a brief glance and made a guttural sound of dismissal. He really wasn't interested in sharing the latest events with the bard who undoubtedly would jump at the chance of turning them into a song and spreading the tale to half of the civilized world. He was slightly surprised that Jaskier hadn't heard about the events already, but then again it was hard to tell how much had actually become public. Whatever the reason, Geralt would rather cut out his tongue than inform a chatterbox like Jaskier about what he'd rather pretend never happened.

“Giving me the silent treatment, huh?” Jaskier crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Well, suit yourself. Since I have been your travel companion and loyal friend for such a long time, I feel like I know you well enough to figure things out by myself. There's nothing you can hide from me. I can read you like an open book.”

Geralt shot him a dark glance. “Shut up, bard.”

“Rude, as usual. Well, at least one of us has manners.”

Jaskier fell quiet then, following the witcher's gaze. The magistrate apparently had finished his speech and Celaena stepped forward, squaring her shoulders as she positioned herself at the edge of the stage. Tradition required that the convict receive a chance to say some final words. It allowed them to admit their guilt in face of the crowd and publicly accept their punishment in order to redeem themselves in front of their community as well as the Gods. Geralt wondered if she would actually ask for forgiveness. Somehow, it didn't seem like her.

The sorceress stood in silence for a long while, gazing at the people, her face unreadable. There was not a sound to be heard, everyone's attention focused on her and her alone. The air was thick with expectation. What would she have to say? Would she renounce her deeds? Would she pray to the Gods to forgive her? Some convicts put up quite a fight, struggling for their lives until the last second. So far, her behavior had been disappointingly composed. Maybe she would be one of those who faced their punishment with their heads held high.

Celaena stood still as a statue, rigid as if she were in a trance. Minutes passed without her saying a single word, and when the magistrate was beginning to become restless, obviously eager to proceed, she finally spoke.

“F*** you.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet somehow it carried into every corner of the square. The words elicited a murmur from the crowd and Geralt saw the magistrate shift uncomfortably. There was a hard glint in her eyes, and she lifted her chin, raising her voice.

“You dimwits, you know nothing of the world! How dare you pass judgment on someone mage-born? You are beneath me!”

Catcalls sounded from the crowd, but she went on, ignoring the response of the people.

“Do you think killing me will solve anything? I'll prove you wrong. I curse you!”

Fearful murmurs mingled with angry shouts, and as she continued, they swelled into a solid roar. The magistrate had paled at her words, realizing just too late that things weren't going according to plan, and gestured at the guards who stepped up to her, taking hold of her arms. Furious, she steeled herself against being manhandled towards the gallows. Her voice was shrill now.

“I curse you and your miserable town! You'll never get rid of me!”

Her gaze, which had been darting back and forth across the audience, settled in Geralt's direction. Geralt knew it was impossible, yet he had the uncanny impression that she was actually looking at him.

“I will haunt you until the end of your days!”

The last words were a cry that pierced the air, clearly audible despite the roaring crowd. Geralt watched the guards lift her onto the platform and slip the noose around her neck. She continued shouting, working herself into a fit, trying to drown out the crowd but unable to so.

“Kill that witch!” The woman next to Geralt shouted. “Kill her already!”

More people joined the call which turned into a chant. “Kill the witch! Kill the witch!”

Geralt felt Jaskier bend closer. The bard was apparently excited by the unexpected turn of events.

“Oooh, that's unusual, don't you think? Might even be material for a song. Tell me, do you by any chance know some details about that sorceress?”

Disturbed by the events, Geralt clasped the bard's wrist without averting his gaze from the sorceress, who had finally stopped shouting and stood still, her face contorted into a grimace of hatred. The magistrate raised his hand and the guard at the lever executed the command. Geralt saw the rope tighten as she fell and he could swear that he heard her neck snap, which was impossible of course given the overall noise, even with a witcher's heightened senses. The audience jeered, an almost deafening storm of excitement and glee, and Geralt stared at the dangling corpse for a long moment before making his exit.

As he left the noise of the crowd behind him and entered a narrow alley, he could hear Jaskier's pursuing footfalls clatter on the cobblestones.

“Wait!” The young man called. His lute banged against his back as he jogged. “Aren't you glad to see me again? Come on, Geralt.”

The bard caught up and fell into stride alongside him. “That was quite something, don't you think?” He paused, obviously expecting an answer. “Geralt?”

The witcher stopped and glowered at him. “I'm really not in the mood, Jaskier.”

The latter raised his hands and flashed him a disarming smile. “That's okay, you don't have to tell me anything. In fact, you don't need to talk at all if you don't want to. Let me do all the talking, how about that? Because I can't shake the feeling that you knew the woman that they just hanged.”

Geralt started to walk again and Jaskier smirked. “I knew it. So, who was she? A friend?” He paused. “Possibly not judging by the expression on your face. Maybe an enemy? Ah, that's more like it. See? You can stay all grumpy and unapproachable, not a big deal.”

Realizing that there was no way to get rid of the bard, Geralt turned a corner and stopped, forcing the young man to do likewise. He let out a long breath before facing him.

“Fine,” he said. “What do want, Jaskier?”

“I just want to reunite with an old friend,” he replied lightly, “who seems to be in need of some cheering up, if you can forgive me being blunt. By the way, where are we heading?”

“ _We_ are heading nowhere.”

“Okay,” Jaskier acknowledged, “let me rephrase that. Where are _you_ heading?”

“Back to the castle.”

“In employ of the king, aren't you?” Jaskier sounded excited. “What monster are you hunting for Foltest? A bruxa? A werewolf?”

“Nothing of the like. I'm just staying there.”

Jaskier frowned, trying to make sense of it. “Foltest invited you to stay at his castle?”

Geralt sighed. The conversation was getting rather tiresome, and his patience was wearing thin. Right now, all he wanted to do was hole up somewhere and rest. Think. Try to figure out how to proceed from hereon.

“No, Triss did.”

“Triss Merigold? The sorceress?” There was a sparkle in his eyes that made Geralt regret his words instantly. “The king's adviser? Oh-ho, Geralt! My deepest respect! Here you are, claiming that you want nothing from life, and you're taking a vacation in the bed of a beautiful sorceress. How long has that been going on, huh?”

Geralt frowned at him. “It's not what you think.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It's not.”

Jaskier looked pensively.

“Would make for a good song though. The famous white wolf and the dark-eyed witch of Vizima.” He intoned an improvised melody. “Entranced by fair Triss Merigold/ The white wolf left his winter lands/ his frozen heart was thawed by love/ and melted in her gentle hands -” He stopped mid-sentence when he saw the expression on Geralt's face. “Alright, I get it. Not a love story.” He sighed regretfully. “Would have made a great song though. Actually, the old songs are starting to become a little unfashionable and the people are asking for new tales about you. I was hoping that maybe you could fill me in on your latest adventures. Maybe even take me along on your next one, just like in old times.”

Geralt shook his head to himself and resumed his way back to the castle. The streets were deserted, with almost everybody gathered at the marketplace, and his footsteps echoed hollowly among the buildings.

“Oh, come on. Don't be like that. You don't have to tell me about Triss if you don't want to. I respect your privacy.”

“That would be a first.”

“Now that's not true and you know it.”

From the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier rummaging around in the pockets of his jacket and a moment later, a sheet of parchment was waved in his face. Annoyed, he stopped dead in his tracks and snatched it from Jaskier's hands.

“What is that?”

The bard smiled. “I took it off the notice board at the marketplace. It's a request for a monster hunter. Seems some woodcutters in the forests up north are experiencing trouble with a terrible beast that has already killed three of them.”

Geralt scanned the writing which confirmed the bard's words. “five hundred ducats is quite a lot,” he murmured to himself. “I wonder how simple woodcutters have come up with that much money.”

“The village is a two days' ride from here,” Jaskier pointed out.

Geralt looked at him skeptically. “And why on earth are you walking around with a note like that in your pocket? Please tell me you haven't started to loot notice boards around the country as inspiration to your ballads?”

An expression of outrage formed on Jaskier's face. “Who do you take me for?”

“A desperate musician.”

The bard scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, well. You might be right about that. But I'd never deprive people in need of help of the services of a monster slayer. That would be immoral. Not only that, it would be downright cruel.”

Geralt raised an inquiring eyebrow. “So?”

“When I heard that you were in town, I thought a job offer might convince you to go on another adventure with me.” Jaskier smiled apologetically. “Come on, Geralt. Just for the sake of old times.”

Geralt sighed. It was late autumn already and usually, he would be on his way home to Kaer Morhen by now. The only reason why he was still in Vizima was Triss's promise to open a portal for him once he had healed. Physically, he was fine by now, and he would have left already if it hadn't been for the nightmares that still troubled him. He had hoped that watching Celaena's execution would bring him some peace of mind, but now that he had seen her die, he realized with disappointment that he didn't feel any different at all.

Maybe Jaskier's suggestion wasn't such a bad idea. Triss had reassured him that the traces the curse had left in his mind wouldn't interfere with his daily business, and physically he was fit for monster hunting. Maybe getting back to old routines would do the trick. Occupy his thoughts with something else. Stop brooding.

He realized that Jaskier was looking at him hopefully, flashing him a boyish smile.

“I'll think about it,” he grumbled.

“Great! You won't regret it, I promise. It'll be just like in the olden days.” Jaskier beamed. “I'm staying at the Emerald Tankard by the way. Come and see me as soon as you're ready.”

“I didn't say yes,” Geralt muttered, but the bard was already too far down the street to hear him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will take us back to Geralt and Triss, and to some of the unresolved issues of "Cursed". As always, constructive feedback is greatly appreciated, so if you feel like sharing your thoughts, please use the comment section below. Again, I'd like to thank Sammys_Girl for betaing my work and for sharing her insight - you are a great help!
> 
> Thank you so much for your feedback and leaving kudos, it has made me very happy to hear from you :-)

Triss caught the frosty gleam of Geralt's hair in the moonlight and suppressed a sigh. Shivering, she drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stepped out onto the balcony which protruded from the west wall of the castle where her private rooms were located. It was near freezing and her breath fogged in the crisp night air, the cloudless sky above her littered with thousands of stars. It was quiet except for the soft padding of her feet on the stone tiles and the soft rustle of the wind in the autumn trees.

Geralt was leaning against the banister, eyes vacant, his elbows propped on the railing. He had donned a pair of pants and a tunic to ward off the night chill, but the thin layer of clothing looked terribly insufficient. She wondered if he actually felt warm due to his enhanced metabolism, or if he welcomed the distraction of the biting cold. Judging by the tense look on his face, it was probably the latter. He cast her a brief glance as she approached, acknowledging her presence, then turned to look into the distance again.

“I had hoped to find you sleeping,” she said quietly as she approached him, assuming position at his side. The coldness of the railing penetrated the soft silk of her sleeves as she rested her arms on it. “It's well past midnight.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I'd been waiting up for you?”

Triss gave a wan smile. She knew that he hadn't, but it was a flattering thought.

“Have you?”

“Of course.”

He caught her raised brow from the corner of his eyes and added, “After I realized that I couldn't get back to sleep.”

Even though she had expected that answer, she couldn't help but shake her head in response.

“Another nightmare?”

He gave a vague shrug, obviously not wanting to talk about it.

“How was the council meeting?” He asked disinterestedly.

“Tedious,” she admitted, not particularly happy about him avoiding the topic at hand. “We're not one step closer to a trade agreement than three days ago. Foltest seems to be ready to throw the towel, and frankly speaking, I agree.”

“Hmm.”

Due to the ongoing negotiations, she hadn't been able to see him much in the past days and meetings had often continued well into the night. It had been frustrating, knowing that Geralt would want to leave soon with winter only a few weeks away, which meant that the time she could still spend with him was short. It would have been nice to actually get the chance to enjoy his company.

He remained silent, apparently not interested in the details of politics, and continued staring ahead. She followed his gaze. The night sky reflected in the waters surrounding the city and along its shore, reed protruding in straight lines from the soft grass. The meadows stretched far into the distance where they melted into the dark silhouette of Brokilon forest. Under different circumstances, Triss would have found the view quite romantic. With things being as they were, she found herself unable to enjoy the scenery.

“You dreamed about her again, didn't you,” she tried again, carefully avoiding to look at him. Being a healer, she understood how difficult it was to talk about what troubled the mind, and experience had taught her that being stared at didn't help. If anything, it made things worse.

She caught his nod from the corner of her eyes.

“Please tell me about it.”

Again, there was no answer, and even though it was expected, it was nonetheless frustrating. After all this time he had spent at her place, she had hoped that he would finally be able to confide in her, especially since she already knew what his nightmares were about.

Basically, they were all the same as the underlying theme never changed. They always dealt with the sorceress who had cursed him, the woman who had forced her will onto him. At times she would take on the shape of a monster, a kikimora or a basilisk, some beast that the witcher had encountered in battle before. However, now it would bear some of her features, her colorless eyes or her piercing voice. Sometimes, he would run, haunted by an unspeakable horror that he knew he couldn't escape. But whatever form his former tormentor appeared in, he would always be incapable of defeating her. He would be frozen, paralyzed by some sort of poison - or worse, forced to use his sword against himself.

More than once she had witnessed him call out in his sleep, lash out at some invisible enemy to finally bolt upright with wide eyes, face covered with sweat. Sleeplessness usually ensued. It had taken her a while to come up with the right combination of herbs to remedy his condition, something that improved his rest without sedating him too deeply and depriving him of the possibility of waking from his dreams. In the end, they had settled on a mixture of valerian, hop and passionflower, enhanced by a good portion of magic.

“I saw that you didn't drink the tea I made for you,” she chided softly. “I thought that it helped.”

“I wanted to see if I could manage without it.”

His voice sounded hoarse, and she cast him a sidelong glance, trying to read his face. Even in the frail light of the moon, the shadows beneath his eyes were clearly visible. He looked troubled. Worn.

“Why?”

He sighed deeply and lowered his head.

“Because I can't go on like this, Triss.” His voice was pitched low but she didn't miss the barely concealed frustration that laced his words. “It's been almost two weeks, and there has been no improvement at all.”

She lifted her brows in surprise, feeling like she had missed something important.

“I thought you've been doing a lot better the past days.”

“Yes,” he scoffed. “Under the influence of your drugs. But you can't expect me to drink sleeping potions for the rest of my life.”

“Well, it's just been a couple of days. Maybe you just need to be more patient.”

“I have been patient,” he retorted angrily and Triss jumped a little, startled at the sudden outburst of emotion. “I should have been way past this. But I still feel her in my head. I see her face _every night_. It's like part of her is buried inside my mind.” Distractedly, his hand trailed up to rub his temple. “When I went to the hanging today, I thought that watching her die would do the trick. But it changed nothing.”

Feeling his anguish, she laid a light hand on his arm. Through the finely spun fabric of his tunic, she could feel how cold he was. He must have been out here longer than she had thought.

“You have been through a lot,” she offered. “You need to give yourself more time.”

He shook his head, lips pressed into a taut line.

“You don't know the things I've lived through. I have suffered far worse, by the hands of men and monsters alike, and I have never experienced anything like this. Why hasn't this gone away?” His eyes challenged her, questioning her. “Is it the remains of the curse? The bits that you were unable to remove?”

Triss lowered her gaze and tightened her lips. She had done everything in her power to break the spell that had been laid on him, but it had been beyond her skills to remove every single trace of it. The anchor points of the curse were still embedded in his mind, and though she had told him that they wouldn't hinder him in his daily business, now she wasn't so sure anymore. They were a foreign matter after all, not unlike a splinter in one's flesh, and it was possible that they still caused him pain. However, given the nature of his night terrors, she suspected there was more to it than that.

Feeling his gaze weigh on her expectantly, she gave a helpless shrug.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “At this point, it's hard to tell.”

His jaw worked in frustration.

“Listen,” she said tentatively, “I know you probably don't want to hear it, but being subjected to a spell of mind-control is nothing to be taken lightly. Your thoughts have been repeatedly invaded and you've been forced to kill. You faced the prospect of a life in slavery. An experience like that would scare anybody.”

Only that a witcher was supposed to be strong enough to cope. He didn't have to say it out loud, she could see it in his eyes.

“Don't be so hard on yourself. Give yourself some more time,” she repeated gently. “Look, I don't know why you're in such a hurry anyway. It's almost winter and you said you wanted to return to Kaer Morhen. If you like, I could open a portal and take you home. You've told me that your witcher brothers are the closest thing to family you have. If you feel safe there -”, she paused when she saw the expression on his face.

“I don't want to go home. Not before I know what's going on with me.”

“Why not?”

He avoided her gaze, frowning. As it became clear to her that he wouldn't respond, Triss extended her mind and reached out, gently, barely touching his thoughts to listen in. Having been in his mind before, it was easy to make a connection. Images of dark corridors flashed across her mind, sparsely furnished rooms, a spacious hall with a roaring fire in its hearth. The unfamiliar faces of other witchers. Their names appeared in her thoughts of their own volition. Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert. Impersonations of physical and mental strength.

She saw the emptiness of the castle, the deserted laboratory, lonely winter days stretching endlessly ahead. She felt the haunting presence of those who had lived and died there and all of a sudden, she understood.

In his current state, Geralt didn't dare to return to a place that isolated, a place that harbored so many ghosts of its own. Haunted by nightmares, he was scared for his sanity, scared that he might have to spend months like this, unable to free himself of the woman who had enslaved his mind. Once the paths were snowed in, there would be no way to send for a healer in case it got worse. For the first time, she realized how badly he had been suffering those past days and she hated herself for not noticing sooner. For not being there for him. Wasting her time at council meetings when she should have been looking for a cure.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I didn't realize it was that bad.”

His head snapped up, and too late, she realized her mistake.

“Get out of my head,” he said sharply, nostrils flaring. “What is it with you mages that makes you think you're entitled to snoop around in other people's thoughts?”

“Geralt...”

She reached to place an appeasing hand on his arm but he swatted it away.

“No!” He glared at her, livid, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. “I really thought you'd know better than that. That was not for you to see.”

“I'm sorry,” she repeated, rattled by his sudden outburst. His face was a mask of fury, his muscles taut with rage. He seemed ready to lunge out. The sight scared her to the core. She had thought that he trusted her, that since he had freely allowed her into his thoughts before, it would be okay. It seemed she had been mistaken.

However, given what Celaena had done to him, his reaction probably wasn't surprising. With a sudden pang of remorse, she realized she should have anticipated it.

“It won't happen again.”

“No, it won't.”

He stormed past her and she stood for a long moment, cursing herself for being so stupid. In the past minutes, she might well have destroyed whatever trust there had been between them.

Closing her eyes, she silently begged the Goddess for help before following him inside.

The bedchamber was dark except for the single candle on the nightstand. The flickering light cast long shadows about the room, barely revealing the shape of the large wardrobe in the corner, the narrow cabinet and the cushioned armchair beside the fireplace. The single bed was the only thing that was touched by the light and she found Geralt's bowed form on the edge of the mattress, head cradled in his hands.

Triss lingered in the doorway and gazed at him in silence, unsure what to do.

Finally, she made up her mind and walked over to the cabinet where the tea she had made him still stood untouched. She took the cold cup into her hands and ran her fingers along its rim, working a simple heat spell to rewarm its contents, then renewed the spells of potency that already lay on the beverage. When she approached Geralt, he looked up, wearily as if the whole world was lying on his shoulders. The anger from before had vanished from his face, making room for an expression of utter exhaustion. He accepted the cup quietly.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “I'm not sure what got into me.”

“There's no need to apologize. I should have asked for your permission. This was my fault.”

He shook his head and gestured her to sit beside him.

“I know you didn't want to pry. You were only trying to help. It's just -” He gazed at the floor. “I think I've had my fill of other people messing with my mind.”

“I know,” she said softly, following his invitation and seating herself at his side. From up close, he looked even worse. She wondered what his latest nightmare had been about exactly but didn't dare ask, and she certainly wouldn't make another attempt to read his mind. She cast her eyes down, looking at her hands and waited for him to talk. This time, she would accept his silence, she vowed to herself. If he didn't feel like sharing, it would be okay.

“Maybe you're right,” he said after a while. “Maybe she really got under my skin. Maybe this doesn't have anything to do with whatever remains of her curse.”

Triss looked at him.

“It might help to talk about it,” she tried carefully. “Acknowledge what you've been through, what it did to you. How you feel about it.”

He huffed a laugh, humorless and bitter. “I'm not one to talk about feelings.”

“That might be the problem.”

“Well, it's never been a problem before.”

The way his shoulders tensed, she could tell the mere thought of it made him instinctively close up, and it occurred to her that even if he chose to address his emotions, he probably wouldn't be able to. All his life, survival had depended on his facade of invincibility, and by now it must have become a habit, intuitive and natural, like putting on his armor before a fight. He might not even be able to recognize the feelings that churned up inside him, lest name them. The fact that she was a sorceress, capable of penetrating his defenses just like Celaena had done, didn't help either. With a pang of regret, she realized that maybe she simply wasn't the right person to confide in.

Too bad he was refusing to return to Kaer Morhen. His brothers might be able to give him the moral support he so desperately needed, as they were witchers, too. He might be able to open up to them. On the other hand, if they were anything like Geralt, there was a fair chance that they wouldn't talk about feelings either.

Idly, she wondered how he had coped in the past. From what he had said before, there had been countless situations with the potential of causing severe mental trauma and he had always been able to deal with it. Geralt wasn't one to break easily. So what if it really had something to do with the curse? Was it possible that the anchor points were linked to especially painful memories, and as a result caused him this much distress? Maybe it was the signature of Celaena's chaos that constantly reminded him of what had happened?

She kneaded her lip and concluded that it couldn't be ruled out. She simply knew too little about curses like this, and Celaena had made some changes to the spell, which made things even more complicated. Maybe it was time to seek the help of someone who specialized in this kind of magic.

“It might be the curse after all,” she thought out loud, shooting him a quick glance.

He gave a helpless shrug.

“Even if that's the case, I'll never find out. You said there was no way to remove the anchor points.”

“That's not exactly true. I said that _I_ couldn't remove them. At least not without causing serious damage. But there might be others who can.”

He looked up at her, pale hair falling like a veil past his shoulders, and she saw the sliver of hope in his eyes.

“What are you implying?”

“Well, it seems like the trade negotiations have come to a premature end, which means I'm free. Actually, I think I should pay a visit to some old friends at Aretuza. Some of them might be able to help or know someone who can. If not, there are still the archives and arcane library. I can't make any promises, but I think it's worth a shot.”

“You'd do that for me?”

“Of course. Geralt, I -” she stopped herself when she realized what she was about to say. She had never admitted it to herself, at least not in the way she felt it right now, and she wondered if she should let him know. How much she cared about him. But when she saw his face, drawn and pale from lack of sleep, she knew that it was not the right moment.

“I'm your friend. I want to help you.”

He nodded tiredly.

“I'm grateful,” he replied softly, looking very much like he felt undeserving.

There was an awkward moment of silence between them.

“I'll leave tomorrow”, she said at length. “There's no need for delay. Do you want to come along?”

“To have even more people prodding at my mind?” His mouth twisted sarcastically. “No, thank you. Actually, I'm thinking of going on a trip of my own.”

That came as a surprise. She had always assumed that when he left, it would be to return to the Blue Mountains, back to Kaer Morhen. He had never mentioned other plans to her.

“I ran into an old friend today,” he continued, “and he wanted to join me for some monster hunting.”

“A witcher contract? Are you feeling up to that?”

He shrugged.

“Physically, I'm fine. And with the help of your tea, I should rest easily enough.”

Thoughtfully, he swirled the cup in his hands, watching the moving liquid catch the candlelight. Steam rose from the beverage, indicating that it was still hot. He shot her a glance when he noticed the skeptical expression on her face.

“I think I'd really appreciate some normalcy,” Geralt added. “Get back on the road. I really don't like the idea of just hanging around your place.”

It was a wish she could understand, and it might actually help to take his mind off things. Her place didn't offer much in terms of distraction for a witcher, and it was clear that an outdoor person like Geralt wouldn't tolerate the confinement of her rooms for long. Maybe this friend of his was even someone he trusted enough to confide in.

“Well, I don't see why you shouldn't. Just take it easy. Where are you headed?”

“It's a two days' ride up to the forests in the north. A village called Twin Brooks. I should be back in five days or so.”

Triss nodded, making a mental note. “I'll probably have some results by then.”

“Hopefully something good.”

“I'll do my best.”

“I know.”

The last words came as a sigh. Tentatively, he reached for her hand and she felt her heart skip a beat at the unexpected touch. In the past days, it had always been her showing affection, always her reaching out to him, and she didn't dare get her hopes up. She cast him a questioning glance and he squeezed her hand in response.

“Thank you, Triss.” His eyes sought hers. “I mean it. And please forgive me for yelling at you like that. You didn't deserve it.”

She opened her mouth to respond but found that now of all times, she was unable to take hold of a clear thought. Lost for words, she hesitated for terribly long moments, and when she became aware of the confusion on his face, she realized that she should probably do the obvious and accept his apology.

“It's okay.”

It wasn't exactly the answer she had in mind but it would have to do.

“Don't you want to drink your tea?” She suggested, feeling awkward.

“Yes, you're right.”

He sipped at the tea, grimacing at its foul taste, and then emptied it in one go, placing it on the nightstand after he had finished. Then he got to his feet and without much ado, shrugged out of his tunic, getting ready to return to bed. She watched him drape it over the back of the armchair and couldn't help but marvel at his bare torso, his muscled back, the scars that bespoke countless victorious fights. When he turned, he noticed that she still hadn't gotten up, and shot her a wan smile.

“I can take it from here.”

She didn't doubt it. However, she didn't want to leave. Not after he had taken her hand into his like that. Then again, it was obvious that somehow she had missed her chance. She didn't have to read his mind to know that right now, all he craved was a good night's rest and a sleep devoid of dreams.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

She pushed to her feet and smoothed her dress, all formal politeness. Again, he gave her that tired smile.

“I'll be fine.”

“Well,” she said, still hesitant, hoping against hope that he would ask her to stay when she knew he wouldn't. In fact, he would deem it unsafe, having argued before that he feared hurting her while in the throes of a nightmare. They were also the reason why he had insisted on a separate room, not wanting to unintentionally wake her in the dead of night. “Good night, Geralt. Sleep well.”

“You too. See you in the morning.”

She left then, hating herself for not being more forward, and at the same time feeling that it would have been no use anyway. Some things couldn't be forced. Well, she mentally corrected herself, at least they shouldn't be forced. Before she closed the door behind her, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder and caught him folding back the sheets, his bare shape outlined by the light of the single candle beside his bed. Under the influence of the tea, he would probably rest well tonight.

Triss felt with certainty that she wouldn't.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will take us back to Geralt and Jaskier. I'm still trying to get the hang of their relationship, so it has taken me a while to get this finished. Getting Geralt's emotional journey right has also been somewhat of a challenge. I hope the result is satisfactory :-)
> 
> Again, thank you to my wonderful beta Sammys_Girl for their continuing support. Your insight into the characters has been extremely helpful! Also, I'd like to thank everyone for their lovely comments or leaving kudos, it's been great to hear from you!

The main room of the Emerald Tankard smelled of fresh bread, ham, and the smoke of hearth fire. It was the kind of place that Geralt would have chosen to spend a night at after a successful hunt – plain and comfortable – and a brief survey of the patrons confirmed his impression. They were simple people, most of them wearing the practical garb of workers and travelers. The place was quite crowded, considering that it was already two hours past sunrise, and Geralt lingered in the doorway for a moment, trying to get an overview of the crammed space. It seemed that all tables were occupied, a fact he attributed to yesterday's execution that had drawn more people than usual into the city.

“Geralt! Over here!”

Prompted by the call, his eyes shifted to a table at the window, where he spied Jaskier in his red doublet. The bard waved at him, apparently concerned that his mere calling might not suffice to get the witcher's attention. Unfortunately, the maneuver was working so well that right now, literally every head was turned in Geralt's direction.

Geralt scowled, trying to ignore the stares and hushed whispers as he made his way towards Jaskier. Naturally, after yesterday's hanging, his name was on everybody's lips, and since he had avoided showing himself in public for the past two weeks, people were excited to see him. Not all of the faces were friendly though, and he noticed the openly hostile glances from two bulky men at the bar. The taller one had a nose that had obviously been broken several times and he murmured something to his comrade, eyes dark with disdain. Geralt made a mental note to keep his eyes on them. He didn't doubt his capabilities to take them on, but considering the recent events, he wanted to avoid another public row at all cost.

Stoically, he picked his way between the tables, careful not to show his discomfort at the sudden silence, and lowered himself into the chair next to Jaskier with a mumbled greeting. The position allowed a good view of the location as well as the street, and thankfully, he could sit with his back facing the wall. He placed his bag and the bundle that contained his swords within arm's reach. People resumed their conversations and the men at the bar turned their backs.

“Good morning to you too,” Jaskier responded lightly, genuinely happy to see the witcher. “I'd like to say that you look well-rested, but unfortunately the opposite is the case. I hope you don't mind me saying that you look terrible. Holing up at Triss Merigold's place apparently isn't doing you any good.”

Geralt chose to ignore the bard's comment and let his eyes wander around the table. Jaskier was currently treating himself to a substantial breakfast. He saw bacon, scrambled eggs, fresh bread, two kinds of jam, cheese, cold roast beef, and a bowl of fruit. The pitcher in the middle of the table contained apple juice, and there was a plate with different kinds of cake. Apparently, the bard had ordered the complete menu and by the contented look on his face, he was enjoying it heartily.

“Didn't you get anything to eat the past days?” Geralt grumbled.

“Don't be silly.” Jaskier smiled around a bite of scrambled eggs. “I'm merely enjoying the comforts of civilization as long as I can. After all, I have to prepare for the hardships of another journey, and knowing you, there will be little in terms of culinary delight.” He swallowed and gestured at the food, fork in hand. “Help yourself. There's more than enough.”

“No, thanks,” Geralt replied, not feeling particularly hungry despite the fact that he had already skipped breakfast with Triss. “I'm not really -”

“Nonsense,” Jaskier interrupted him and called out across the room, waving at the busty brunette behind the bar. “Betty! Could you bring us another plate and a cup for my friend?”

The tender looked up from her conversation with a bearded man at the bar and set down the glass she had been cleaning.

“Coming up!”

She flashed Jaskier a very toothy smile and readily disappeared into the kitchen.

“The bread here is really good, and the honeycomb cake is pure poetry. You should try some.” Jaskier nudged the plate in Geralt's direction. “My treat.”

Given the bard's enthusiasm, Geralt found it difficult to refuse. With mild curiosity, he eyed the pastries, wondering which one was the honeycomb cake, and settled on a golden brown piece with countless small air-pockets. The way Jaskier grinned, he had made the right choice.

“Have you accidentally come by a large amount of coin?” Geralt asked, taking a bite and realizing at once what Jaskier had been talking about. The airy texture combined with the round taste of caramel, cream and butter was a revelation. He rarely ate sweet baked goods, a habit that went back to his childhood days at Kaer Morhen. Food like that lacked the nutrients needed to build muscle, and as such naturally had no place in a witcher's diet. As a boy, he had sometimes missed Visenna's cookies with a vengeance, but that craving had faded with time, and after he had completed his training and set out into the world, he had found that somehow his need for sweets had disappeared completely.

This cake, however, was something he could get used to. He must have actually smiled because Jaskier beamed at him like a proud mother hen.

“Not at all,” the bard continued. “I have merely become good friends with the innkeeper's daughter.”

“Betty?”

“The very same.” Jaskier reached for a slice of bread and buttered it generously. “She is such a lovely girl, and talented in _so_ many ways. Musical, too. It has been a while since somebody showed that much appreciation for my work as an artist. After my performance here at the inn, we spent a very romantic night together. In the haystack, of course, since her father would have firmly disapproved if he'd found out. She has the body of a goddess - “ His hand trailed an imaginary curve and Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Please spare me the details.”

The dreamy expression remained on the bard's face for a moment before he remembered the buttered bread on his plate and reached for the strawberry jam. He scooped an impressive amount onto his bread and licked the spoon clean.

“Anyhow, she enjoyed my skills as a lover just as much as my poetry and now I'm getting breakfast for free.” He paused pondering his previous statement. “Well, at least I'll get a discount. Probably.”

He took a relishing bite. From the corner of his eyes, Geralt saw the brunette emerge from the kitchen with a plate and cup, making her way towards them. She placed the dishes in front of Geralt with a polite smile, then cast Jaskier a flirtatious glance.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Thank you, sweetheart. We're fine.” Jaskier reached around her waist to pull her close and she slapped his hand, tutting.

“Not in public,” she chided. “Do you want to get me into trouble?”

She nodded at Geralt.

“You're the White Wolf, aren't you? Is it true what they say about you? That you saved Miss Merigold?”

It was a lighthearted question and she probably didn't mean anything by it. Still, Geralt involuntarily tightened his grip around the cup.

“It's not that simple.”

She raised her brows. “I bet it's quite the story. Maybe Jaskier can make a song about it.”

Geralt's frown deepened. Here he was, having to deal with the prying questions of strangers when all he wanted was to forget about the whole incident. He had been mind-controlled and almost sold into slavery, worse, had even managed to drag Triss into this mess, wasn't that enough? Did he constantly have to be reminded?

Jaskier must have noticed the look on his face because he interjected before Geralt could respond.

“Or I'll compose a song about our next adventure. Right, Geralt?” The bard said hastily. “We're about to hit the trail to Twin Brooks,” he added, looking at Betty. “I told you about that, remember?”

“Well, I hope their monster is worth a song.,” she mused. “Just make sure you return in one piece. Would be a shame.”

She lightly touched Jaskier's hand, and he straightened, assuming what was probably meant to be a heroic posture.

“Don't worry, I've helped Geralt slay countless monsters before. By now, I'd even say I'm something of an expert. Before you notice, I'll be back with the monster's head and a great tale to entertain you with.”

“Looking forward to it.” Her lips twitched in amusement. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

She winked at Jaskier, who shamelessly gazed at her rounded bottom as she left, a dazed smile on his face.

“She is really something, you know.”

“I bet,” Geralt said tersely. Actually, he had hoped to just drop by, find Jaskier already packed up, and hit the road. Now it seemed like he would have to spend yet another hour in the city, bearing the glances of just too many people. From the corner of his eye, he saw the two men at the counter get up and leave.

“Look,” he said pointedly, “if you like her that much, you can stay here and enjoy her company a while longer. Maybe you'll even get a love song out of it. I was actually planning to get on the trail.”

“Don't push,” the bard replied indignantly. “You haven't even finished your cake.”

Geralt took another bite just to shut him up. For a long while, Jaskier just munched on his bread, jam dripping down his fingers, and apparently doing his best to finish breakfast before the source of his next tale lost his patience and decided to leave without him. However, being who he was, Jaskier couldn't keep silent for long.

“You should know,” he went on eventually, “that I found out about Celaena.”

Given how many people had been at the hanging, it had only been a matter of time until Jaskier heard about it. Still, Geralt felt his jaw tense as the bard mentioned her name.

“Congratulations.”

“Sarcasm.” Jaskier commented dryly. “Why am I not surprised? Look, Geralt, I get it. You don't want to talk about it. But people will continue to ask questions, and you might want to decide about what story to tell them.”

“I'd rather not tell them at all.”

“Not a smart choice,” Jaskier retorted. “In my experience, unanswered questions create a void that needs to be filled. If you don't present any answers, people will come up with their own, and they might not be very flattering.”

Not particularly keen on continuing the discussion, Geralt's glance strayed toward the window, where he could see the two men walk down the street, leisurely as if they had all the time in the world. The one with the crooked nose presumably had just made a joke, because his friend was clapping him on the back, laughing. Considering the direction they were taking, they were heading for the market.

“Look,” Jaskier continued. “We have put so much effort into building your reputation. Why destroy all our hard work?”

Two city guards on horseback passed the inn, sunlight reflecting on the hilts of their sheathed swords. On the other side of the street, a couple of children were skipping and leaping, playing some sort of game. A small brown dog tagged along, running back and forth among them and jumping at their legs. The sight was a welcome distraction from Jaskier's inquiring eye.

“Well, if you won't do it for yourself, you could do it for Miss Merigold. People are talking about her, too.”

That touched a sore spot, and Geralt's eyes snapped back at him.

“Leave Triss out of this.”

It came out harsher than intended, and Jaskier raised his hands defensively.

“Tell that to the people. Do you know how many stories I've heard since I arrived? In some of them, you are actually the one who abducted her. Don't look at me like that. I know that's not what happened. But maybe you're getting my point here.”

Jaskier was right. It was hard to admit, but the way he argued, he was actually making sense. The trial itself hadn't been public and the information given to the townsfolk had been carefully chosen. Maybe it was a good idea to come up with a story that would satisfy the people's curiosity. However, it didn't necessarily have to be the truth.

“Just make something up,” he grumbled.

“Wouldn't you rather have the story be true?”

Geralt's eyes zeroed in on the bard, dark with anger and pain. “As if you care. Not one of your songs tells what really happened. So just take some artistic license and make up your own version.”

“Ouch. That hurts. You do realize that I'm trying to act in your best interest here, don't you? That when I occasionally stray from the truth, I do it only to aid your reputation? To help _you_?”

 _And to help yourself_ , Geralt mentally added. He wasn't so daft as not to realize that Jaskier made a better profit from singing a hero's tales than sticking to the plain truth. However, he decided to keep that particular insight to himself, knowing that in the past, Jaskier had done his best to keep up his side of the bargain. Geralt redirected his eyes toward the window. A covered wagon rolled by, obstructing his view of the playing children.

“Fine,” Jaskier conceded. “Have it your way. If you don't feel like sharing, then don't. I won't bring it up again.”

Geralt watched the wagon pass the window to reveal a slender woman standing on the other side of the street. She stood among the playing children, undisturbed by the ruckus, quietly observing the inn. Her pale hair was neatly pinned up, the diagonal scar across her face visible even across the distance, the long sleeve of her gray dress concealing the stump of her right arm.

He felt an icy hand clutch his heart.

It couldn't be. He had seen her die. Yet, even as he blinked in confusion, the vision remained the same.

Memories flashed across the screen of his mind, immediate, vivid and almost tangibly clear. His sword slamming into a guard's throat at her bidding, his blade gutting a young man in front of his friends. His hands closing around Triss's throat, her heartbeat fluttering under his fingertips, her eyes screaming with panic. He could almost hear the witch's voice in his head again, commanding him not to hold back. Commanding him to kill.

Cold sweat pooled on his skin as he realized that she had come after him again. That she was here.

“Look, why don't you join me outside when you've finished,” Geralt said hoarsely and pushed to his feet, picking up his swords.

“What… why? I already told you that I wouldn't bring it up again.”

Geralt ignored the bard's confused protests and weaved his way through the crowded room, heading for the door. So his instincts had not lied to him. Ever since he had watched her die, he had wondered why he still felt her presence, why her grasp on him hadn't abated. She was still alive. Somehow, she must have been able to fool the crowd, maybe she'd had help from an accomplice. But this would end now.

The chill autumn air bit into his face as he stepped outside, hand curled tightly around his swords, and stared at the spot where he had seen Celaena not even a minute ago. She was gone.

His heart hammered in his chest as he crossed the street in a few strides and approached the children. Seeing him coming, they scattered away from him, their small dog yapping agitatedly. A blond boy tried to run past him and he managed to catch him by the arm.

“Where has she gone?” He demanded, voice rough.

The boy squirmed in his grasp, eyes wide with fear.

“Who? I don't know what you're talking about!”

“The woman! You must have seen her, she was standing right here among you.”

“I didn't see anyone! Let me go!”

“Don't lie to me,” he insisted. “I know what I saw.”

“Let me go! You're mad!” The boy screamed, jerking at his hand in a futile attempt to break free. He started kicking at him, but his legs were too short and missed.

“What are you doing? Let the boy go!”

Geralt spun on his heel to stare at the elderly woman who had approached him from behind. Muscles taut and ready to strike, he froze, gaze wandering across her stained apron and the headscarf she wore to keep her gray hair from her face. In her hand, she was holding a broom.

It must have been something in her down-to-earth stance that brought him around, maybe it was the firm stare of her eyes, but suddenly awareness returned. Realizing just now how much the boy was struggling, Geralt released his grip and watched him dart toward the other children who were looking at the scene from a safe distance, hiding behind a deserted cart.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, casting down his eyes, “I thought I'd...” He wasn't able to finish his sentence, appalled at himself. He felt his face burn with shame. He had no idea what had gotten into him.

“You'd better stay away from the children, or you'll have me to contend with,” she warned.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated the words from before, wishing very much to be someplace else. He had been so sure that he had seen _her_ , but now as he felt the terrified glances of the children, the disapproving glare of the woman, he became painfully aware of his mistake.

Unable to meet her gaze, he turned, marching back to the inn where he lingered a long moment in front of the door before deciding not to go back in. He wondered how many people had witnessed him, wondered if Jaskier had seen. What he had to be thinking. He decided that he couldn't go back inside, couldn't bear the thought of everyone's glances on him. He would have to, eventually, his bag was still in there after all, but it could wait.

He had tied Roach next to the entrance, and she nickered softly, sensing that something was amiss. Putting his swords down beside her, he softly patted her shoulder, then pressed his forehead into her neck. She was warm and firm. Beneath his hand, he could feel her muscles work as she shuffled slightly. She was definitely here, solid, real, and he found that her familiar presence grounded him.

“What's wrong with me?” He murmured against her fur, and she threw her head back in response, snorting.

Gently, he took hold of her bridle, turning her head towards him, and noticed with annoyance how much his hands were shaking. Celaena hadn't really been there, he realized that now. She couldn't have been, neither in flesh nor in the form of a wraith, the reaction of the children had made that overly clear. There was only one other explanation he could think of, and it scared the hell out of him because it meant that he was losing his grip on things. What if the curse had affected him more deeply than he had thought? What if he was virtually falling apart?

He closed his eyes, trying to take hold of a clear thought. This had never happened before, not as long as he had stayed at Triss's place, so maybe it wouldn't happen again. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep that had gotten to him or Jaskier's insistence to talk about the matter, and the bard had promised not to bring it up again. Wistfully, he wished for Triss to be here, to be able to ask for her advice, but she had left in the early morning hours and wouldn't be back for a couple of days. Until then, he had to do something, had to stay somewhere. The idea of leaving the city still sounded mighty appealing.

But what to do about Jaskier? Would it be safe for him to tag along? Should he leave him behind? He cast Roach a questioning glance.

Maybe that wasn't even the correct question, he pondered. Jaskier would probably tag along whether he approved or not. Maybe the better question was if he should tell him, and he wasn't so sure about that either. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he was probably overreacting. He had been mistaken, no big deal. Maybe it had just been a reflection in the glass of the window.

He must have stood there longer than he thought because a voice behind him startled him from his thoughts.

“So, shall we go?”

It was Jaskier, lute strapped onto his back and all packed, Geralt's bag in his hands. The smile dropped from his face the moment Geralt turned to face him.

“Shit, Geralt. You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you alright?”

He nodded despite himself. “I'm fine. Just needed some air.”

Jaskier scratched his head and smiled a bit sheepishly. There was a stain of strawberry jam on the lapels of his jacket.

“I guess I was a bit annoying earlier,” the bard added apologetically. “Sorry about that. Here, I've brought something to make up for that.”

He handed him a bundle wrapped in clean linen, along with the bag Geralt had left at the inn. Geralt didn't have to open it to know what was inside. It smelled of honeycomb cake.

“Jaskier...” he began, not knowing how to react. He was still shaken by what had happened and confronted with this unexpected apology, he found himself a little overwhelmed. He wasn't used to people being nice to him, and the fact that he hadn't exactly been affable earlier, didn't make it any better. In fact, he felt utterly undeserving.

“You're welcome,” Jaskier smiled and gave Geralt a friendly pat on the shoulder, apparently not surprised by the reaction. “So, I think the city gate is that way.”

He marched ahead, turning when he realized that Geralt wasn't following.

“What are you waiting for? Earlier you couldn't leave soon enough, and now you're standing there like an idiot. Come on, let's get going!” He made a wide gesture as if he wanted to embrace the world. “Adventure, Geralt!”

Ignoring the uneasy feeling in his stomach, Geralt stacked the cake safely away in his bag and gathered his few belongings. Then he untied Roach's reins, mounting his mare in a single, swift movement. It took him mere moments to catch up with Jaskier, who had pulled an apple from his pants and was polishing it on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Still hungry?” Geralt commented dryly.

“Well, you made me skip dessert.” Jaskier took a bite and continued with his mouth full. “And with you as my travel companion, there's no telling when we'll stop to rest.”

“So you're still intent on tagging along.”

“You bet.”

The way Jaskier's smile broadened, Geralt was sure that the bard had not witnessed the scene in the street. It was a relief of sorts, knowing that he wouldn't have to explain. However, he couldn't shake the uncanny feeling of being watched. That _she_ was watching. When he was sure that Jaskier wouldn't notice, he cast a brief glance over his shoulder, scanning the people on the street behind him. The children had resumed their game, and there were several pedestrians, most of them heading in the direction of the market. Not one of them looked even remotely like her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to get this chapter finished - sorry for the delay! There were a lot of details I needed to figure out, the relationship between Triss and Tissaia being one of them, and I had to rewrite the dialogue several times. I hope this has been worth the wait.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for your kudos and comments. It's always a treat to hear from you! Also, my deepest gratitude to my lovely beta Sammys_girl for their patience and support. It means a lot.

“ _Disgyniad –_ the great descent.” Tiassaia's voice was low, but in the silence of the library, her words sounded unnaturally loud. “One of the oldest rituals of the Aen Seidhe. Is that the reason why you've requested access to the restricted part of the library?”

Startled from her work, Triss looked up to find the rectoress of Aretuza standing directly behind her, gazing with barely concealed interest at the collection of books and notes that were scattered across the worn desk. The one Triss had just been studying was opened at a page that contained an essay about the ritual in question.

“Among other things,” Triss confirmed, rubbing her eyes, which itched with tiredness. Only now, she realized how dark it had become already, and that she probably should have lit the candles hours ago. In the sparse light of the setting sun, the letters on the page were barely discernable.

Triss had spent the greater part of the day here at the archives, sorting through a variety of spell tomes, scrolls and essays in hopes of finding a way to help Geralt. So far, with little success. To her dismay, she hadn't even found conclusive proof that Geralt's condition was due to the remains of the curse. When she had finally stumbled across an account of the great descent, it had seemed to be an option at least. As far she understood it, the ritual would grant her access to the deeper levels of his consciousness, where the curse had been anchored.

“Well, I hope you're not planning to try it yourself.”

Triss didn't answer and Tissaia's curved brows quirked upward by a fraction. “You do realize that human minds are very different from elven ones.”

“I am aware of the risks,” Triss answered with a sigh. “But I admit I am a bit at a loss. I feel like I'm running out of options. Here, look at this.”

She put the books aside to make room for a scroll of parchment, which she unrolled on the desktop, smoothing its edges so it lay flat. The drawing was a precise copy of the diagram that had been used to curse Geralt, consisting of several overlapping geometrical shapes and a set of elder runes surrounding the outer circle. Tissaia pursed her lips as she realized what she was looking at.

“That's a spell of mind control, and a very proficient one at that.”

“Blood magic,” Triss affirmed wearily. “I have managed to lift the spell itself but haven't been able to dispel the last traces of chaos.”

“May I?”

Tissaia gestured at the drawing, and Triss helpfully moved her chair backwards. As her former mentor, Tissaia was far more experienced than she was and her input was greatly appreciated. She might even know some of the answers that Triss had been unable to find.

Tissaia turned the drawing to face her and lit the candelabra on the desk with a small opening of her fingers. Sudden candlelight flickered across her finely chiseled face and reflected in her eyes as she bent over the diagram. Slowly, her fingers started to trace the intersecting lines of the pattern as if to determine the way it would harness the chaos once activated. Her brows creased in thought.

After a moment of silent contemplation, she mumbled a word in elder tongue, and a pattern of luminescent lines rose from the parchment. Suddenly, the center of the pattern burst open, tendrils of light stretching outward, twisting, searching for something to connect to. Triss sensed the poisoned chaos coiled in the groping cords of light and stood, taking an instinctive step backward while Tissaia extended her hands, her face frozen in concentration. Runes manifested like ghostly shapes in mid-air. The glowing forms brightened and vanished.

Slowly, Tissaia lowered her hands and the last flicker of light disappeared. For a moment she just stood, shaking her head to herself in bewilderment.

“No wonder you've had trouble with this,” she finally said. “This is a very powerful spell. It has obviously been intended to subdue a strong will, and whoever designed it, put in a great effort to make it stick. Look at these,” she pointed at the runes in question. “Usually you would find these signs in _goetia_ , when trying to bind a greater demon or a djinn. I have never seen them in a context like this.” Her eyes flicked upward to meet Triss's. “Whose work is this?”

Triss gave a mirthless smile. “Celaena's.”

“Celaena von Than?” Tissaia's lips firmed in disapproval. “Why am I not surprised? Her fascination with the dark arts had been a problem from the beginning. In the end, it was the reason why she was expelled.”

Triss huffed, irritated by the remark.

“Well, maybe you should have turned her into an eel instead. It would have spared the world a lot of suffering.”

She didn't even try to keep the bitterness from her voice. Ever since she had learned about the curse, not a day had gone by without her loathing Celaena, and she had come to silently blame Aretuza for not taking more vigorous action back then, especially since it had been clear right from the start what kind of person Celaena was.

If Tissaia felt anything at the accusation, she didn't let it show.

“That was out of my hands. But I've heard she has met her end anyway.”

“Yes,” Triss affirmed quietly. “Her execution was yesterday.”

“Did her death sentence have anything to do with this?” Tissaia's hand indicated the drawing, and Triss nodded. News traveled fast among mages, but apparently, this detail had escaped her so far. “May I ask who the unlucky victim of the curse is?”

Triss hesitated, surprised that the sorceress hadn't guessed already.

“Geralt of Rivia. You might have heard about him.”

“So she managed to enslave the mind of a witcher,” she murmured to herself, obviously impressed by the revelation. “Was she able to control him completely? Make use of his sword skills and magic?”

“I don't know about the magic,” Triss said tersely, “but she made him kill for her repeatedly. I managed to lift the curse itself, but the anchors remained in his mind.”

“And you can't remove them without hurting him,” Tissaia concluded. She resumed studying the layout, brows creased in thought. “Has he suffered any after-effects? Nightmares? Hallucinations?”

There was no reason to keep it from her. If Triss wanted her expertise, it would be best to be open about it. She just hoped that Geralt wouldn't reprimand her for it.

“Nightmares, yes. Irritability. But I've been able to aid his sleep with the help of the right herbs.”

“Then he got off lightly.” Tissaia nodded thoughtfully. “It is unfortunate that he isn't here though. A thorough examination could help determine how deeply the curse has been anchored in his mind, how much damage has been done. Do you think he might agree to a screening here in Aretuza?”

Triss gave a wan smile. Geralt had been very clear about that, and she couldn't even blame him. Thanks to what Celaena had done to him, his trust in practitioners of the magical art was currently slim, bordering on non-existent.

“I have already asked him, but he refuses.”

“That's too bad. It would have made things a lot easier.”

It probably would have satisfied Tissaia's professional curiosity, too, but Triss was careful not to say it out loud.

“I'm sure that's true, but maybe you can help me anyway. Do you have any experience with magic like this?”

Tissaia exhaled a soft sigh, shaking her head.

“Well, it seems that this curse has been created specifically to control a witcher. I admit I have never seen anything like it. The only thing I can say with certainty is that the anchors of the curse need to be removed, otherwise he will never recover completely. Those anchors are a foreign matter, not unlike an arrowhead in a wound, and now that the curse is lifted, his mind will recognize them as such. It will try to reject them.”

Triss shifted, disquieted by the information.

“So, what does that mean exactly?”

“Well, you are a trained healer. What do you think it means?”

It was a rhetorical question. Triss had dealt with arrow wounds before and knew from experience what happened if part of the projectile was failed to be removed. Memories formed in the back of her mind, the putrid smell of festering wounds, the discoloration of rotting flesh. She knew how quickly blood poisoning could lead to death. With discomfort, she wondered what the mental equivalent would look like.

“How long until it gets worse?”

She unsuccessfully tried to keep her voice level. Maybe Geralt's condition had deteriorated already, without her noticing. After all, she had kept him medicated to aid his sleep, so it was hard to tell. With regret, she remembered his worries about the lingering nightmares, and how she had tried to downplay them, saying that he needed to be more patient. It seemed that his instincts had been right.

“Honestly, I don't know.”

The answer was not exactly comforting.

“Well, do you have a suggestion on how to proceed? How to remove the remains of the curse?”

Tissaia fell silent, her eyes drifting toward one of the narrow windows to gaze into the darkening sky. The way she was hesitating, Triss could tell that there was no obvious way to do it.

“Well,” she said at length, “it is difficult to give advice since the witcher isn't present. Have you managed to determine where exactly the curse has been anchored?”

“I have tried,” Triss admitted with barely concealed frustration, “but Celaena planted her curse in the deepest layers of his consciousness. It's impossible to locate the anchor points exactly, not with any spell I know.”

“Well, that would be the first step. Anything else would make removal a game of chance.”

“I know.” Triss sighed. “It's the reason why I started to look for an advanced form of telepathy, some sort of mind-meld that might allow me to probe deeper. To actually _go_ there. See it with my own eyes.”

“To dispel the chaos from within.” Tissaia nodded thoughtfully, her eyes unfocused as if she was trying to take hold of a memory that was too old to remember clearly. “Actually, it has been tried before. I remember a case some hundred years ago when a healer tried to cure the paranoia of his patient by entering his mind. He was successful, too. Claimed he had revolutionized his field of medicine. It wasn't until he tried to use the same method on a different patient that he lost his mind. He spent the rest of his days in a cell, screaming his voice out.” Her gaze settled on Triss, who sat with her arms crossed in a reflexive effort to shield herself from the image. “You see, this ritual is of the Aen Seidhe. It is not meant to be used on humans. We are not made for this kind of mental connection, and attempting it is dangerous, both for the healer and the patient.”

She knew what Tissaia was talking about. There were places in the human mind you weren't supposed to go, thoughts that weren't meant to become conscious. Dark places that consisted of raw, unchecked emotion – guilt, humiliation, fear. There was no telling what she would encounter in Geralt's mind if she decided to actually follow through with this, or how it would affect her.

“I know.”

“Do you?” Triss shifted uncomfortably under Tissaia's gaze. “There are good reasons why this ritual is not taught at Aretuza, why there are no instructions in your book. The world has lost good sorcerers that way, and I certainly wouldn't recommend making your first attempt with a mind that is broken.”

“He is injured, not broken.”

Tissaia discarded the comment with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

“It doesn't matter how you call it. Considering what you have already told me, he is emotionally unstable and he will hardly be able to control his thoughts. He might hurt you. As soon as you enter his mind, you will be facing a torrent of unchecked emotion, and even if you manage to advance deeper, his subconscious will regard you as a threat and attack violently. You know what he does to make a living. Just think of the images his mind will throw at you.”

Triss didn't have to strain her imagination. The terrible screech of the striga had been enough to set her teeth on edge, and though she had never personally encountered one of the creatures a witcher hunted, it wasn't hard to imagine how much worse it would be to face one. Some of the monsters she knew from drawings she had seen in a bestiary, detailed depictions of fangs and claws, and descriptions to match. She also remembered the unspeakable things that a child had to endure in order to become a witcher. She really wasn't keen on finding out about the gruesome details.

The way Tissaia looked at her, she must have read her thoughts. Triss swallowed dryly.

“There must be a way to lower his defenses. To make it safer.”

She knew of drugs that slowed the mind, making it easier to relax and enter a trance. It would be the right state of mind to attempt something like this. Maybe he could even guide her, lead her to the places where the chaos was hooked into the fabric of his mind.

“There are a variety of herbs you could use to help form the initial connection, but I know of nothing that will help beyond that.” Tissaia shook her head. “Once you enter his subconscious, you are on your own.”

Triss fell silent, letting the information sink in. It would be an unpleasant experience, that much was clear, and she certainly wasn't looking forward to it. However, she was confident that she could handle it, and if there was even the slightest chance to ease Geralt's suffering, it was worth the risk. The question was if he would allow it. After all he had been through, he might not be willing to let her into his mind, might not even be able to. With a pang of guilt, she remembered his outburst the night before when she had read his thoughts without his consent. This ritual was far more invasive than that, the connection required far more intimate. It would scare the hell out of him.

“Well, if you know of another way, I'll gladly consider it.”

“I wish I did.” Tissaia shook her head apologetically. “But if you want to, I can ask around, see if I can find another way.”

The offer was genuine, Triss could see it in her eyes, but she didn't want to get her hopes up. Tissaia was one of the most knowledgeable mages on the continent, and if she couldn't help, there was little chance that anyone else could. It was nice of her to try though.

“Well, as long as you don't mention Geralt...”

“You don't have to worry about that.”

Triss smiled, knowing she could trust Tissaia to keep her word.

“Well, in that case, thank you. It would buy me some time.”

It was time she could use to look up the right herbs, to acquaint herself with the details of the ritual and make sure it was as safe as possible. When Geralt returned from his hunting trip, she wanted to be prepared, and five days wasn't a lot of time for an undertaking like this.

She frowned when she felt Tissaia's eyes rest on her. Her face looked almost compassionate.

“He means a lot to you, doesn't he.”

It wasn't a question.

For a beat, Triss was unable to think of an answer, being caught completely off guard. It was an unexpected change of topic and she didn't exactly feel like discussing it, least of all with Tissaia. Not too long ago, she had been her teacher, her former mentor, and she had not yet become a friend. However, it seemed like Tissaia didn't even expect an answer.

“You do realize what this ritual implies, don't you?” She continued gently. “This is nothing like the forms of telepathy you know. You will learn more about him than you asked for, and as you learn about him, he will learn about you.” Tissaia held her gaze, looking at her intently. “He will _know_ you.”

So he would see her as who she really was. It wasn't all good, Triss was aware of that. There were things she had done, things she wasn't proud of. There were shameful, humiliating experiences she had tried to hide even from herself, things she'd rather pretend had never happened. But that wasn't what Tissaia was aiming at. He would also learn about how she felt for him.

Until now, she had carefully avoided pondering on it too much, and she found herself still hesitant to put a label on it. For some time, she had told herself that her hesitation had to do with her being a healer and the professional distance it required. But if she was honest, part of it simply stemmed from her fear of being rejected. He was a witcher after all, and there were certain things they said about his kind. Their incapacity of emotion was one of them, and it fed the small voice in the back of her head that warned her against truly falling for him because if she did, she would get hurt.

She had never told him about it, and she certainly didn't want him to find out like that. Most of all, she didn't want to be in his head when he did. It might well become one of the most painful experiences of her life.

“I hadn't thought of that,” she admitted.

“I know.” Tissaia gave her a small smile. “But you should. I won't try to talk you out of it, this is your decision. And if you decide to do this, make sure you are as well prepared as possible. In the meantime, the complete library and archives of Aretuza are at your disposal. Take as much time as you need.”

Triss didn't know what to say.

“Thank you.”

It was heartfelt. Triss held her gaze, and Tissaia gave her a small nod.

“Good luck. I'll let you know when I have something.”

With that, Tissaia turned and left, the hem of her dark dress sweeping the floor behind her. Triss watched her leave, trying to ignore the uneasiness that had settled in her stomach.

When the door fell shut, she just stood for a moment, completely at a loss. Finally, she reached for her bag and retrieved the blackened mirror she had brought from her lab. It was an artifact that could be used to watch others from afar, and it had seemed a good idea to bring it along. Initially, it had been intended to keep an eye on Geralt, make sure that he was alright, but if she was honest to herself, right now she just wanted to see him.

She lowered herself into her chair, resting her forearms on the desk before her, and skillfully angled the mirror so that it caught the candlelight. After a moment of concentration, she saw the mirror image blur, swirling into a vortex of color before taking shape again to form Geralt's familiar face. Her eyes softened when she found him standing beside his horse, patting its neck. She watched him take off the saddle and blanket, then slip the bridle over the mare's head. Somebody must have talked to him because he looked up and a small smile tugged at his lips. She couldn't hear his answer, the mirror was terribly limited that way, but he seemed to be alright, almost relaxed. Apparently, the company of his friend was doing him some good.

Triss continued to watch for a while as Geralt and his friend – Jaskier, she remembered – made camp, laying out the bedrolls and sorting through their provisions. The latter took a bite of what looked like a dumpling and continued talking with his mouth full, while Geralt started to brush down his horse. When Geralt finally trotted off into the woods, probably to gather some firewood, she laid the mirror down.

Now that the sun was setting, she realized that she was actually starting to get a bit hungry herself. Dutifully, she gazed at the pile of books that still needed to be worked through, but her grumbling stomach quickly convinced her otherwise. It was time to take a break, have supper. She would continue her research afterward.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 will take us back to Geralt and Jaskier on the road. It took me a while to get this right, and I'd like to express my greatest thanks to Sammys_Girl for helping me sort things out. Also, thanks to everyone who dropped a comment or left kudos. It fills my heart with joy to hear from you :-)

Evening found Geralt crouching at the edge of a small stream. It meandered through a forest gorge not far from the clearing where he and Jaskier had made camp. It was a quiet spot, a good way from the road, and the water was fresh and clean. Methodically, he rinsed his canteen in the flowing water before filling it and setting it aside to reach for Jaskier's waterskin. Beside him, Roach nickered contentedly as she drank her fill.

It had been his first day in the saddle after weeks, and now that the day drew to a close, he felt exhaustion deep in his bones. When they had started out this morning, he had felt well enough, his injuries healed to the point where even the scars barely throbbed anymore, but it had become clear pretty soon how far he still was from his former strength. The slow pace he had initially set out of consideration for Jaskier had become a necessity pretty soon, and he had been forced to take a break every so often just to catch his breath. Thankfully, the bard hadn't seemed to mind, and if Jaskier indeed had noticed anything off, he hadn't voiced it. It had been a relief when the shadows finally grew long, and it was time to settle in for the night.

Still, Geralt didn't regret the trip in the slightest. Jaskier's company had been surprisingly pleasant, his constant chatter a welcome distraction from the dark thoughts that had plagued him. To his surprise, the bard had actually kept his promise and had not brought up Celaena again. Instead, he had relayed what news and stories he'd heard in the past months, and Geralt, who was usually not interested much in gossip or politics, had been happy to listen. Once or twice, the tales had even brought a smile to his lips, and when Jaskier had run out of things to talk about, he had brought out his lute, and that had helped too.

When they had finally made camp, Geralt had felt more relaxed than in weeks, and now that he was crouching by the stream with nothing but the soft gurgle of the water and Roach's occasional snorting to keep his attention, he could feel himself drifting. The scents of the forest lulled his mind, the earthy smell of decaying leaves mingling with those of mushrooms and damp wood. It was nice. Peaceful. He shifted to rest on his knees, reacting instinctively to the fatigue that weighed his limbs, and dipped his hand into the stream, enjoying the brush of the ice-cold torrent against his fingers as he refilled the waterskin. When it was full, he ran his hand over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. Gods, he was drained. He hoped that he would get some sleep tonight.

_Geralt._

His name sounded like a whisper on the wind, so soft that he wasn't sure if he had really heard it. Warily, he cast a brief glance over his shoulder to scan the trees behind him, half suspecting to see someone standing there, but the forest was quiet and there was no movement in the dense shadows that swallowed the shrubs. Shaking his head at himself, he returned to the task of refilling the last container.

_Witcher._

The voice was louder this time, clear and sharp, and an icy tension crept up his spine as he recognized it at Celaena's. He was alone, he knew that. Jaskier had stayed behind at camp to get a fire going and prepare a meal. There had been nobody else nearby. There was no magic either, at least none that he was aware of, as his witcher medallion lay quiet and heavy against his chest. Still, Geralt had the overwhelming sensation of being watched.

_There you are, witcher. Did you really think you could escape me?_

It was close, as if a presence was taking shape right behind him. He could almost feel her lips brush against his ear as she repeated his name, felt her hand hover over his shoulder just shy of touch, and when he caught the flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, he whipped around, ready to fight. Roach flicked her ears, dancing nervously at his sudden movement.

There was nobody there. Heart pounding, his eyes darted across the trees and underbrush, traced over moss-covered rocks and knee-high weeds, but he couldn't find anything out of order. He was alone. He was safe.

Yet, he didn't feel like it. His breath came in harsh gasps, adrenaline surging through his veins as he looked for _her_. He could see and hear no one, but still, his witcher instincts were screaming danger, and he had learned to trust them. They had saved his life more than once.

“Where are you?” He mumbled, veering to scan the area around him. “Stop playing games. Show yourself.”

A cracking sound in the woods made him whirl around, reflexively thrusting his hand forward to cast Aard. Magic burst from his fingers and ripped through the underbrush, leaving a swath of broken branches in its wake. The blast was followed by a squeal, and something small and furry shot out of the thicket of briar to seek refuge up an oak trunk. Geralt suppressed a curse when he recognized it as a raccoon.

He exhaled a sharp breath, trying to let go of the coiled tension in his muscles. The sense of danger still prickled his neck and set his teeth on edge, but the more he waited, the more he came to realize that indeed there was nothing to be feared. He had been mistaken, just like this morning when he had seen Celaena in the street.

Willing himself to calm down, he closed his eyes, letting go of another long breath. He was uncomfortably aware of the cold sweat that soaked his shirt, the thundering of his own heartbeat in his ears. It had to be the lack of sleep, he told himself. That, and the exertions of the day. It really was about time to get some proper food into his stomach, drink a cup of the medicinal tea Triss had mixed for him and lie down. Get some rest.

Accepting the explanation for the time being, Geralt sank to his knees beside the waterside to splash some cold water into his face and waited for the shaking of his hands to abate. This wasn't the first time his imagination had played tricks on him today, and he found the experience deeply unsettling. Luckily, the target of his attack had been just a raccoon. Disquieted, he realized that it might as well have been Jaskier in the underbrush.

He still pondered on the matter as he sat by the campfire, Jaskier's face glowing like a lantern in the wavery light of the flames. The bard was happily chewing on a piece of apple cake while Geralt had his hands wrapped around a cup of Triss's tea, blowing on it every now and then as he waited for it to cool down. As it turned out, Jaskier had brought a varied supply of delicacies along, apparently determined on spoiling the both of them, and though Geralt hadn't been able to eat much, he had still thoroughly enjoyed it. It had been a pleasant surprise, one that Geralt appreciated in a way he couldn't put into words.

Still, it wasn't enough to detract his attention from the worry that had planted itself firmly in the back of his mind. What if it wasn't merely exhaustion that had triggered whatever had happened at the stream? What if Celaena had damaged him more than he'd thought? He realized that things might get worse from hereon, and this time, Triss wasn't here to help. It would be another couple of days at least until she returned to Vizima, and until then, he would be on his own. It was a thought he was less comfortable with than expected.

His eyes strayed to the bard, who had pulled the lute into his lap, pensively plucking the strings and turning the pegs. Next time, he realized, it might not be a raccoon. It might be Jaskier, and he would never be able to forgive himself if the man got hurt because of him. As hard as it was, there was only one thing he could do to keep him safe. He would have to send him away.

It wouldn't be easy though. Jaskier would undoubtedly want to know why, and Geralt wasn't ready to put the story into words. Hell, he could barely admit it to himself.

He let go of a soft sigh.

“Everything alright?”

Jaskier looked up to gaze at him across the flickering fire. It was a casual question, an instinctive reaction to the perceived discomfort of a friend, yet Geralt felt his hands inadvertently wrap tighter around the cup he was holding.

“No.”

His voice was so low that he could barely hear it himself, and Jaskier tilted his head, brows twitching in surprise. Apparently, it wasn't the answer he had expected.

“That's a first.” He put the lute down and Geralt shifted subconsciously when the physical barrier between them disappeared. “So, would you like to tell me what's wrong?”

Geralt wanted to, but confronted with the question, he didn't know where to start. Because what was he supposed to say? That he was on the verge of losing it, seeing and hearing things that weren't there? That he had just sent a blast of magic after something as innocuous as a raccoon because it had startled him? He wasn't ready to admit to any of that, least of all to the events that had caused all this.

Jaskier tilted his head, eyes unwavering as he waited for him to answer, and the more time passed, the more Geralt realized that he couldn't just stay silent. He had to say _something_. But it was as if his tongue was glued to the top of his mouth.

“Geralt, please talk to me. I can see something's wrong. Ever since we've left the city, you've been in a spectacularly foul mood, and you look like death warmed over. You've barely eaten anything. Are you ill?”

“I'm fine.”

“Right.” Jaskier looked doubtful. “But something is troubling you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Geralt sighed, closing his eyes. He wouldn't take it well, he knew he wouldn't. Yet he couldn't see any way around it.

“I'm thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to part ways.”

There, it was out. No way to take it back now. Jaskier blinked his eyes in disbelief.

“Why?”

He didn't have an answer to that and Jaskier shook his head, uncomprehending. There was a flicker of hurt in his eyes that was about to tip into anger. Not that he could blame him. After all, the bard had done everything in his power to make this trip a pleasant experience. All he wanted in return was some time with his friend and a story to share with his audience.

“I thought you liked the idea of us going monster hunting. Did I do anything wrong?”

He bit back another sigh.

“No.”

“Then why do you want me to leave?”

Geralt shook his head, mind groping for a good explanation and failing.

“I just do. Please don't question my decision, it's not up for debate.”

It was then that he felt it again. The feeling of dread creeping up his spine, the sense of being watched. He felt himself tense in apprehension. _It's not real,_ he told himself. _She's not there._ Yet his senses claimed otherwise. With overwhelming certainty, he felt that if he turned right now, he would see her standing behind him in the darkness, fixing him with her relentless stare. He pressed his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head curtly to clear his thoughts. _Not now_ , he thought desperately. _Not while Jaskier is here_.

“It's about the execution, isn't it? The one topic you didn't want me to bring up again.” Jaskier's voice was taut, and there was not a trace of doubt in it. “What on earth happened between you and that sorceress?”

Geralt clenched his jaw, trying hard to ignore the terror that tightened his chest, making it hard to breathe. Sweat started to collect on his forehead.

“Leave it be.”

“The hell I will.” He was starting to get truly angry now. “Don't you see what's going on? You're trying to send me away, so you don't have to face this.”

“That's not true.”

“Of course, it is. It's what you always do. Scare everyone away and brood. But you know what? It's a shit way to deal with things. So stop trying to avoid this and talk to me. I am your friend, for Melitele's sake. What happened?”

 _Kill him_.

Her voice had an icy edge to it, a tone that didn't tolerate any dissent. He felt his hands starting to shake in earnest, his mouth go dry. Panic clutched his heart as he remembered his sword thrusting into the guard's throat, blood spurting as he followed the same command.

_Kill him. Kill him now._

“No!”

It was an anguished groan that ripped from his lips, the cup slipping from his hands, its contents spilling on the ground. He stood panting, every muscle in his body taut with tension.

“Get out of my head!”

Jaskier stared at him wide-eyed.

“Geralt, what the - “

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

He hurled out the words and spun around, marching towards the trees. He wasn't thinking really, just reacting. Frantically trying to get away, to escape the voice in his head and the inquiring questions of Jaskier, which only seemed to make things worse. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Celaena standing among the trees, just like he had seen her in the street this morning. A thin smile curved her lips as she gazed at him, eyes assessing him. The wind tugged at the strands of blond hair that had fallen from her tight bun, the stump of her right arm hidden under her sleeve.

 _I told you to kill him, witcher._ Her voice sounded overly clear in his head. _Do it. I will hurt you if you don't._

She was close, close enough for an attack, and he thrust his hand forward without hesitation, forming Aard. However, he never got to cast it. A stabbing pain shot through him, sharp and blinding, and he fell to his knees, gasping in shock. His hands instinctively clutched his side. It was where the knife wound had been, the one he had received when he had first killed at her command, and his hands came away bloody. He stared in disbelief. It wasn't real, couldn't be. Yet the pain was terribly real.

He jerked when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. A startled sound escaped him as he half turned to look at Jaskier, who withdrew his hand the moment he saw his face.

“Shit, Geralt.” His voice was breathless, hoarse with fear. “Are you alright?”

He forced a deep breath into his lungs, heart racing. Unable to answer, Geralt turned his eyes back to his hands. There was no blood. Agitated, he tugged up his tunic to run his hand over his scar, which was still intact, pink and freshly healed, just like it had looked this morning. He raised his gaze to find Celaena gone.

“Geralt?” Jaskier's voice, uncertain and laced with worry.

It took some time until he could find the breath to answer.

“I'm okay.”

“Come on, let's get you back to the fire.”

Jaskier all but dragged him to his feet, offering a hand which was much warmer than his own. Under different circumstances, Geralt would have refused it, but right now he was too shaken to give it much thought. He made it back to the fire on legs that were ready to give out, and when he slumped down, Jaskier silently settled beside him. Little by little, he got his breathing under control and he rubbed his face with trembling hands. He could feel Jaskier's gaze weigh on him.

“What the hell was that?”

Jaskier's voice was pitched low, betraying how deeply unsettled he was.

It was no use denying it anymore. Jaskier had seen, and Geralt was too spent to even bother making up a lie to pretend he was fine. He was shaking all over, literally felt like he was coming undone. _Fuck._

Again he examined his hands, once more surprised to find the blood gone. The whisper in his mind had quieted. All that remained was slowly abating fear and an overwhelming sense of exhaustion.

“I saw her,” he said tonelessly, eyes unfocused and empty. He felt like a shell. Hollow. A shipwreck at the cliffs after a terrible storm.

“Saw whom?” Jaskier leaned closer, craning his neck to catch his gaze. “Celaena?”

Geralt nodded mutely as another tremor started to take hold of him. He didn't even care to control it, he was too drained. Jaskier quietly reached for his hand, which was ice-cold, and stood, momentarily disappearing from Geralt's view. When he returned, a blanket was being draped around his shoulders. The soft scent of lavender identified it as Jaskier's.

“Celaena's dead,” Jaskier said calmly and Geralt exhaled a long breath.

“I know.”

“So you saw what? A wraith?”

Geralt stared into the dancing flames, numbed and chilled to the bone.

“No.” He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. It was hard to take hold of a clear thought. It took considerable effort to force himself from his stupor, back to the present so he could deal with this. “At least I don't think so.” His hands rubbed over his face again. “I don't know what's going on with me.”

In the end, it was easier to say than he had expected. Maybe it had to do with the state of mind he was in. He didn't really feel like he was actually saying it, rather watched himself doing it as if through a haze.

“I think I'm losing it, Jaskier.”

He whispered the words, his voice almost breaking with the admission. Jaskier creased his brows.

“Since when has this been going on?”

“The first time I saw her was this morning.” He looked up, facing Jaskier with tired eyes. “I wasn't sure what to make of it. If I'd known, I would have never allowed you to join me.”

“So this is why you wanted me to leave.”

Geralt returned his gaze to the flames, knowing he wouldn't have to say it out loud. Jaskier was well capable of reading his silence.

“Great.” Jaskier, who had been sitting on his haunches, pushed to his feet, sighing. “If you weren't so miserable, I'd give you a piece of my mind right now. What made you even consider trying to keep this from me? Did you think I wouldn't notice?”

Geralt sighed. He sensed Jaskier move beside him, and a moment later a canteen appeared in his field of vision. He accepted it without thinking, taking a gulp, then handed it back. They sat quietly for a moment, looking at the flames. Gradually, his shivering started to die down.

“What did she do to you?” Jaskier asked at length.

Geralt shot him a glance.

“She cursed me. A spell of mind control.”

It seemed there was no need for further explanation, Jaskier was able to piece the rest together by himself.

“That's why you spent so much time at Triss's. She was trying to help you.” Jaskier shook his head at himself. “And there I was, thinking that you two were romantically involved.”

Jaskier was silent for a beat. “You should have told me. I have no idea what made you think you should keep this to yourself. And while we're at it, I don't think it's a good idea for you to go monster hunting like this. It's probably better to return to Vizima in the morning.”

Only that he couldn't. There were too many people at risk. Geralt had already risked their lives once, back then when he had sought out Triss's help after he'd just been cursed. People had been killed because of his stupidity. He certainly wasn't going to make the same mistake twice, and he wasn't inclined on risking Jaskier's safety either.

“You go back,” he said tiredly. “I'll stay here.”

“Nonsense. I'm not going back without you. What kind of friend would I be to leave you to yourself when you're not well?”

Geralt suppressed a sigh. He was too damn exhausted to have this argument right now.

“Don't be stupid, Geralt. We'll return to Vizima together, make sure that you get better. Don't worry about my story. We can always go on another trip when you're well again. Agreed?”

He found himself nodding regardless of his worries.

“Great, that's settled then. Anything else I can do for you right now? You look about as played out as I've ever seen you.”

Geralt shook his head. “I'll just get some rest.”

“Okay, you do that. No offense, but you look like you need it.”

It concluded their conversation. Geralt settled in for the night soon after, leaving it to Jaskier to tend to the fire. Exhaustion pulled heavy on him, the exertions of the day making themselves known. He couldn't even keep his eyes open, they were burning too badly with fatigue, and his limbs felt as if they were made of lead. He could barely remember when he had last felt this tired. However, sleep didn't come.

No matter how hard he tried, his mind wouldn't calm enough for him to drift off. It was worry, he realized. Worry about Jaskier who insisted to stay with him although it wasn't safe. Celaena's words still echoed in his head. _Kill him_ , she had said. _Kill him or I'll hurt you_. He had no idea if part of her soul was still alive in his mind, having become part of him when she had cursed him. Maybe it was some kind of traumatic memory as Triss had said. But whatever it was, he didn't trust himself to resist the command the next time it happened. His mental strength was waning.

At some point, Jaskier lay down as well, and Geralt still hadn't fallen asleep. He listened to the other man's motions as he made himself comfortable, and it didn't take long for his breaths to even out. It was then that Geralt made his decision.

He waited until he was sure that Jaskier was asleep and then quietly rolled to his feet. His body protested the movement, insisting on its need for rest, but he had ignored that demand countless times before and knew how to deal with it. Silently he packed his things. Axii was enough to keep Roach from whinnying, and then he was on his way.

Jaskier would understand, at least he hoped he would. In the end, this was for the best.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're halfway there, and I think it's time to kick things up a notch. Thanks for reading. Thank you, too, to my lovely beta Sammys_girl for their efforts. You're the best!

Morning light filtered through Jaskier's closed eyelids and he snuggled deeper into his blanket, the events of the previous night not yet fully returned. The air was cold and smelled of frost. He pulled his blanket closer around his lithe frame, trying to postpone the inevitable moment when he had to shed the comfortable warmth to rekindle the fire. Straining his ears, he noted the absence of Geralt's soft snoring and concluded that he must have gotten up already, probably was down at the stream to fetch water. The witcher was usually up at the first break of dawn.

Jaskier yawned and blinked his eyes open, gazing dazedly at the empty spot beside the fireplace. It took a moment until realization sank in, but when it did, he sat up, suddenly wide awake. Geralt's bedroll had disappeared along with his belongings, and Roach was gone too. When the hell had that happened? He pushed to his feet, the warm relaxation falling off him along with his blanket. Apparently, Geralt had left without him.

Why?

It was the first question that came to mind. Memory of last night returned in vivid images - Geralt marching off into the darkness, falling to his knees with a pained gasp, fear in his eyes. Confusion on his face as he stared back at Jaskier, unsure whether he was really there.

In all the time he had known him, Jaskier had never seen him so utterly shaken, so completely lost, and he had done what any good friend would do. Offer as much reassurance as he could and give him some space to get himself together. Hold back the myriad of questions that sat on his tongue in favor of Geralt's immediate needs. Let him rest.

In the end, Jaskier had thought he'd done quite a good job at convincing him to return to Vizima, together. Play this safe, whatever this was. Seemed like his friend hadn't been so convinced after all.

Jaskier shook his head in quiet frustration. Geralt was fiercely independent and self-reliant, he knew that. Being a witcher, it was a matter of necessity. It wasn't just about tending to his wounds after a fight, it was also a defense against customers who were often prejudiced against him or unwilling to pay what they owed. But Jaskier had seen him wounded before, had even occasionally lent him a hand if needed, so there really wasn't any need to appear strong before him. They were friends, after all, weren't they? At least Jaskier saw it that way.

His lips firmed as he realized that Geralt had never used this term to refer to him. Travel companion, yes. Acquaintance. But friend?

He pondered on that as he got his things together, trying to ignore the sting of hurt. Maybe he should just grant him his wish and leave him be. Why stick around if he obviously wasn't wanted? He could take a hint. Frustrated, he kicked some sand over the smoldering ashes of the campfire before swinging his bag over his shoulder along with his lute. Hopefully, the man was headed back to civilization at least.

He marched back the short way to the road, which was more of a path really, barely wide enough for a cart. In the soft soil, he could clearly make out Roach's hoof prints that led left, following the path into the mountains. So Geralt wasn't returning to Vizima. Instead, he had taken the road to the woodcutters' settlement for the witcher contract. Monster hunting. Not the safest pastime activity if one suffered from lack of sleep and what seemed like very vivid hallucinations.

Jaskier sighed, recalling the conversation they'd had the night before. _What kind of friend would I be to leave you alone like this?_ His own words. He had meant them, too, and he still did.

Oh, fuck it. Geralt might not want him around, but Jaskier wasn't ready to accept that. If he hurried, he might even catch up with him before he reached the village. He was not as wilderness savvy as Geralt, but he was not blind, and Roach had left a track in the soft soil that was easy to follow. So even if he eventually departed from the road, there was a fair chance that he'd find him. Holding on to that thought, Jaskier dug a piece of bread from his bag, took a bite and hit the trail.

It was early afternoon already when he heard the soft chatter of voices from ahead. By then, the path had narrowed, following the edge of a steep ravine, and the ground that had originally been soft forest soil had become rocky and hard. The number of hoof prints had become sparser and eventually disappeared completely. Still, there hadn't been any sign of Geralt.

As he followed the bend of the road, he found three men gathered around the remains of a cart. It was smashed beyond repair, its former cargo, a load of logs, now blocking the path. The horse that was tethered nearby sported a deep gash across the chest. It was being tended to by a stocky man with graying hair. Two younger men were occupied trying to clear the road, talking among each other in low voices.

When he drew closer, he noticed two bundles by the side of the road, which at second glance turned out to be human. The shapes underneath the grimy blankets suggested missing limbs and other mutilations Jaskier didn't want to ponder about. The ground was soaked with blood. He swallowed drily as he pieced the information together, concluding what must have happened here.

“Greetings,” he addressed the men, voice pitched appropriately low. “This looks terrible. Can I be of any help?”

Heads turned towards him, and Jaskier could see the aftershocks of the events written over their faces. Judging by the likeness of their facial features, the younger men were brothers or related in some other way. Jaskier noted the stains of dried blood on their clothing, the rusty brown smears on their hands. Sweat darkened their blond hair and plastered it against their skulls. The way they looked, they must have been through hell.

The taller one of them introduced himself as Liam.

“Not much you can do. We've already sent someone back to the village,” he said with a vague gesture down the road. “Someone should be here soon.”

Jaskier nodded in acknowledgment. From up close, the scratch marks alongside the cart were even more impressive, the indentations inch-deep. He shuddered as he imagined the size of the claws and the muscle required to dig into the wood like that.

“Must have been quite the beast,” he mumbled.

“It was. Jesse here saw it first. We turned tail as soon as it attacked, or else it would have killed us, too. Our second cart ended up down the ravine along with the horses.”

Jaskier followed his glance. Only now did he notice the damaged bushes and shrubs that marked the spot where the cart had gone over the cliff.

“I'm sorry,” he offered his condolences. An uneasy feeling started to spread in his midsection. “May I ask, what kind of monster did this?”

A shadow fell on the man's face.

“The woodland beast.”

The man who had been referred to as Jesse exhaled a long breath and folded his arms across his broad chest, nodding along with his brother's answer.

“It's been attacking our folks for some weeks now. Used to roam the woods farther up north, but when we started to cut our trees elsewhere, it's come down.”

“It's why we put out the word, looking for a monster hunter. But there's not many of them witchers left, and so far, we didn't have any luck. Might well be we have to leave for good.”

Jaskier frowned in confusion. This was the only road to the settlement, so Geralt must have passed them by. Maybe he hadn't identified himself as a witcher? It just didn't make any sense, him being after the contract and all.

“Did you pass a white-haired man on a horse?” He asked uncertainly. “He might have pulled his hood into his face, so it might have been hard to get a good look. Carries two swords on his back.”

Jesse shook his face. “Didn't see no one on the road today, except for the beast.”

Jaskier's face dropped. Was it possible that he had been following the wrong set of hoof prints? He was no tracker, and the soil texture had changed over the course of the past hours. He hadn't paid that much attention either since there hadn't been any junctions off the road and he had thought to know Geralt's destination. He shifted uneasily as he realized that he might have lost Geralt altogether. With the events of last night fresh in his mind, he found the thought deeply unsettling.

Liam must have noticed that something was wrong because he furrowed his brows in concern.

“Everything alright? You looking for someone?”

Jaskier shook his head, trying to make sense of it. “A friend. But if you haven't seen him -”

He turned to look back down the road, trying to recall when he had last seen a hoof print that was clearly Roach's. It must have been hours ago. Slowly, it started to dawn on him that Geralt might never have headed for Twin Brooks in the first place. It was a relief of sorts since it showed that despite his current state of mind, he was still smart enough to stay clear of monster hunting when clearly, he was in no shape. But it also meant that Jaskier would have a hard time finding him.

He wondered if Geralt had been aware of the track he had left. Jaskier didn't deem it beyond the witcher to remain on the road as long as the ground was soft only to head into the woods as soon as he was sure to leave no trace. Well, no trace that a bard could follow.

“Sorry, lad.” Liam's voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I sure hope the beast didn't get him while he was on the road.”

Jaskier felt his stomach tighten at the words. Not that he really thought that he would have missed the signs of something like that. One look at the mayhem before him was enough to rule that out. But the monster had returned into the woods, and he had all reason to believe that Geralt was still somewhere in the area. Geralt, who was exhausted, distracted and far from his usual, more than capable self. He probably didn't expect to encounter the beast so far from the woodcutters' settlement.

Jaskier gazed at the blanketed corpses, trying to ignore the apprehension he felt. If only he had an idea where Geralt was headed, what his plans were. It would make things so much easier.

To his side, the mare bucked with a sharp snort, and Jaskier's eyes flicked up. The beast seemed skittish, protesting the ministrations of the man who tended to her injuries. He reached for her bridle and she settled quickly under his hands.

“Good girl,” he mumbled in a voice that was soothing and gentle. “That's it. Almost done.”

Something about his mannerisms reminded him of Geralt taking care of Roach. The softness in his tone, the reassurance that transpired in every touch. The mare was lucky to have an owner to treat her so well. Good thing that the village was merely hours away. The horses would get to spend the end of the day at the relative safety of a stable, probably eating their heads off, while the men slept with a roof over their heads.

A thought crept into Jaskier's mind. Roach was probably the most important thing in Geralt's life, he would never treat her badly. In all his time of traveling with the witcher, Jaskier had never known him to neglect her needs. There had always been a rub down for her after a long day's journey, after a hunt too, injury or no. Even when coin was sparse, there had invariably been enough food for her.

Geralt might have been able to shake Jaskier as he had left the road, but he had to make camp at some point, if only for Roach's sake, and she needed water.

“You know the woods?” Jaskier asked thoughtfully, eyes wandering towards the forest stretching to the left side of the road.

“Well enough.” The woodcutter shrugged. “I've lived here all my life. Why?”

“I wonder, is there any source of water besides the stream?”

“You mean Tucker's Brook? Well, there's a lake further up into the hills, way past the settlement, but that's about it.”

“So, if you were on horseback and wanted to make camp in the woods, that's where you'd make camp.”

“I suppose.”

Jaskier nodded to himself, and Liam gave him a long look.

“You're not planning to head into the woods, are you? That's the realm of the woodland beast.”

“I know.”

Jaskier wasn't fond of the idea either, but he didn't think he had much of a choice. Unless he decided to back out. However, he couldn't shake the image of Geralt's huddled form beside the campfire, pale from exhaustion, eyes hollow. A shuddering heap of misery. Whatever his reasons to leave in the middle of the night, it had been foolish beyond description, and Jaskier would be damned if he left him to suffer alone.

“Look,” the expression on Liam's face softened, “you seem like a nice lad. Don't be stupid. Right now, the woods are a dangerous place. Hell, even the road isn't safe anymore. Turn back to the city while you can. If your friend is still out here, he'll come and find you. And if the beast got him - ,” he paused briefly. “Well, then there's nothing you can do for him anymore. No offense, but you don't look much like a fighter.”

Jaskier's lips curled upward in a half-smile.

“Didn't say I was.”

As if he was planning to slay the beast. He'd leave that to people who were good at that kind of thing. He could try and find Geralt though, talk some sense into him. If he was right, all he had to do was follow the stream and he'd run into him eventually. The presence of a monster might well convince him to return to civilization.

Liam must have noticed the look of determination on the bard's face because his face was clouded.

“You've got your mind made up, haven't you,” the woodcutter stated. “Well, I'm not going to stop you. As my mother used to say, the line between foolishness and bravery can be thin. Your friend can count himself lucky to have you.”

Jaskier huffed at that. One of these days, he might quote that to Geralt.

***

He couldn't move. The sensation itself was terrifying enough to have him panting, skin trembling with cold sweat, but it wasn't merely the paralysis that scared him. There was a threat lurking in the darkness. Something abominable. Something lusting for blood.

As Geralt lay on his bedroll, immobile and helpless, he could hear its breath, tasted its rancid smell on the wind. Desperately, he tried to rise, force his hands to reach for the swords that he knew to lie by his side, but to no avail. Even his voice was stuck in his throat. All he could manage was to turn his eyes, gaze at the trees with rising terror, waiting for the inevitable rustle in the underbrush that would betray its approach.

It wasn't any creature he had encountered before. Like a shadow, it rose among the trees, black and scaly, lifting its ugly head to sniff for its prey. Its nostrils flared as it caught on to his scent. Unable to avert his eyes, he watched its head snap around, and he bucked against his invisible restraints. His heart pounded so hard it seemed about to burst from his chest.

The beast was upon him within moments. He felt its hot breath on his face, the stench of decaying blood overwhelming his senses. Saliva dripped from its fangs as it bent low, fixing him with gray eyes that he knew. _Her_ eyes.

 _You should have killed him like I told you_.

One of its legs clawed into his side, effectively pinning him to the ground, and then its teeth sank into his flesh.

He woke with a startled gasp.

Above him, sunlight dazzled through colored leaves, branches swaying slightly in the wind. Water gurgled nearby. A dream, it had been just a dream. Groaning, he let his head fall back and rubbed his face.

With dismay, he noticed that the fire he had started this morning had burnt to ashes. He must have fallen asleep while meditating. Not that the attempt had done him any good. These days, it was near impossible to quiet his mind, his thoughts having developed a will of their own, circling aimlessly until they inevitably settled on that wretched sorceress. It reminded him of his early days at Kaer Morhen when he had first started meditation practice under Vesemir's guidance, and it frustrated him to no end. His attention was slipping like some bloody beginner's.

He gave himself a moment to slow his breathing, then pushed to his feet. Roach shifted nervously and he patted her shoulder, trying to calm her. The mare was smart, obviously catching on to her master's mood.

“It's alright,” he mumbled, running his hand across her back. “Nothing to worry about.”

He didn't even believe it himself anymore. Stroking his hands across her back felt good though. It grounded him, providing solace through the familiar touch.

“Just a couple of days and Triss will be back. She'll know what to do. And if not, -” He didn't finish the sentence, unable to think of a solution, and ended up repeating his words from before. “She'll know what to do.”

He treated Roach to an apple and then turned to tend to the fire. The water in the small kettle had completely boiled away. It was expected but it annoyed him nonetheless. If he wanted a cup of Triss's tea, he would have to start all over again, and he didn't think it would be wise to spend another night without it. In hindsight, he should have brewed himself a fresh one last night. After all, he had spilled half of it, and look where it got him.

As he set to the task of rekindling the fire, seeking to calm his nerves by occupying his hands, he could feel the terror from his dream resurface. Someone was watching him. It was a sense of dread that crept upon him, worming its way up his spine until it was all he could think of. It was like the night before, when he had felt the presence of Celaena taking shape behind him. Just as real. Just as terrifying.

He clenched his teeth. No way he was going to allow himself another breakdown. He could handle this. All he had to do was firmly remind himself that Celaena was dead. He had watched her die, Jaskier had watched her die, she couldn't touch him anymore. Easy as anything. It was a curious thing though, ignoring the input of his senses in favor of reason.

Despite his attempts, he felt cold panic take a hold of him, adrenaline spiking. He shook his head curtly, trying to clear his head, hating himself for his weakness. There was nothing here, he repeated his mantra. This wasn't real.

The image of Celaena manifested in his mind. He could hear her now, branches cracking under her feet as she approached. He expected her voice to sound in his thoughts any moment now, mocking him, telling him to pick up his swords to fight. To kill. But Jaskier wasn't here, so she couldn't make him hurt him. At least, there was one thing he had gotten right. Jaskier was safe.

Next to him, Roach gave a frightened whinny and pricked her ears.

Another branch cracked, close this time. His medallion jerked on its chain.

It was then that he realized with urgency, that this time, his instincts had been right. He whipped around just in time to see a humanoid figure emerge from the trees behind him. Gnarled arms protruded from either side of the moss-covered torso, a giant pair of antlers rising from a pale skull like the horns of a pagan god.

A leshen, his racing mind provided. Of all creatures to catch him unprepared, it had to be an ancient forest guardian. All conscious thought fled as survival instincts took over. He sent a blast of igni at it as he leaped for his swords. His first cut aimed at Roach's tethers, and the mare took the chance and ran.

There was no time for another action as the creature attacked instantly. He managed to dodge the first strike well enough, but he was slow, his limbs weighted with exhaustion. The second time, the clawed hands hit him square across the chest and sent him flying into a tree. He immediately missed the protection of his armor as the impact knocked the air from his lungs. The blow to his back had undoubtedly busted a couple of ribs. It was a thought that was quickly discarded. If he didn't get back to his feet now, a few broken bones would be the least of his concerns. The leshen let out a piercing screech that jerked at his medallion, and Geralt cursed, knowing exactly what that meant. It was using its magic to summon the creatures of the forest to aid in the fight.

Time to act now, before it was too late.

Biting back the pain, he struggled back to his feet and cast Quen, his sword firmly in hand. Maybe he could get to his bag at least before he fled. It contained Triss's medicine after all, and a few flasks of healing potions, both of which he would greatly appreciate. In the distance, he heard a wolf howl, the call soon joined by others. _Fuck._

The leshen advanced and he met the attack with a purposeful strike of his sword. Wood splintered as it struck its mark. He doubted that he had caused much damage though, not without the help of his potions. Anyway, it wasn't necessary. All he needed to do was grab his belongings and get the hell out of here. He barely managed to evade another violent swing of its arms and made for his bag, snatching it from the ground in one quick movement that made his ribs scream in agony. He thought that he had made it too until a blow hit him from behind. Most of the damage was absorbed by his magical shield, but still, he felt himself tumbling from the sheer force of the blow.

It took him a moment to regain his footing.

Panting, he raised his sword just in time to block another attack. Magic rippled through the air and from the corner of his eye, he saw the roots of the trees come alive, twisting like wooden tentacles, reaching for his ankles.

It was then that he realized that the creature would never let him go. He had invaded its sanctuary, and the forest guardian would make him pay. Fine, he thought grimly. If he had to die here, so be it. But he would make every strike count. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword and he locked his eyes on the beast before him. A moment before the leshen came at him again, he heard a rustle in the underbrush, the sound of twigs breaking and soft feet tapping on the forest soil. He didn't have to take a look to know what that meant.

The wolves had arrived.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. Last update before Christmas, and it's not fluffy at all. Hope it doesn't destroy the holiday spirit ;-) Anyhow, have fun, and thanks for reading.
> 
> As always, special thanks to my trusted beta Sammys_Girl for their support and critical eye. I am truly grateful.

The sun had already disappeared behind the trees when Jaskier spied the horse down the stream. In the twilight, he couldn't discern her features, but it had to be Roach. There was nobody else in these parts of the woods. As he approached, each step a soft crush of dried leaves, the mare raised her head and flicked her ears.

He felt a surge of relief at her sight. After long hours of traveling through the wilderness without catching so much as a trace of Geralt, he had worried that this whole venture might have been a mistake. Not only had he failed to find his friend, he was now facing the prospect of spending the night in this desolate place all by himself, and he hadn't forgotten about the woodland beast. The familiar sight of the horse was like finding water after a day in the desert, and he quickened his pace.

She didn't retreat, even took a step towards him and allowed him to touch her. His hands stroked down her back. She wore no saddle.

“Hey there,” he addressed her softly. “Are you alright?”

His fingers laced into the bridle and gently turned her head towards him.

“Where is Geralt, huh?”

She nickered softly at his question, and his brows furrowed, worried. He noticed the loose end of her tethers dangling down her neck and ran his fingers down the leather cord to its severed end. He inquisitively stroked his thumb across the clean cut and frowned, not sure what to make of it. Why would Geralt cut her free?

Disquieted, he looked up to scan the area around him. It was quiet except for the soft gurgle of the water and the wind in the trees. There was no sign of the witcher, no wisp of smoke that bespoke a campfire. But he had to be nearby, he would never leave Roach behind.

“Geralt?”

No answer.

His eyes wandered across the dense thicket that extended on either side of the stream, taking in the giant pines and oaks, the thick tufts of fern and overgrown rocks. It struck him how incredibly old this part of the forest was - shocks of moss hanging from gnarled branches, tree trunks so large that they dwarfed everything else. Who knew what kind of beasts lurked in their shadows? He felt his skin prickle at the thought.

“Geralt!”

Again, his call was met with silence. The uneasy feeling in his stomach solidified. Whatever this meant, it wasn't anything good. Roach nudged him from behind and he absentmindedly patted her neck.

“You're worried, I get it. I'm worried, too.”

She was a smart mare, he knew that. Sometimes, when Geralt talked to her, it really seemed like she understood. But Jaskier also knew she wouldn't be able to lead him to Geralt. He would have to find him himself, and with the day drawing to its end, he'd better be quick about it too. The sun had already disappeared behind the trees and the shoreline was shrouded in darkness. He really didn't want to prowl around this forest after nightfall. Firmly, he took a hold of her tethers and with a gentle tug, he urged her to come along as he continued to follow the stream downhill.

Geralt's campsite was easier to find than expected. He immediately knew that he had found the right place when he spotted a huge carcass a little further into the woods. The last rays of sunlight picked out a pair of antlers protruding from what looked like a heap of charred bark and twisted limbs. Although it was clear that the beast was dead, he approached with caution, caught in a state between timid curiosity and horror. Instead of a head, it sported a pale deer skull, cracked from what Jaskier suspected was the impact of a sword. Several slain wolves were scattered around the place. He counted six in total.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he slung Roach's tethers loosely around a branch and cautiously moved on, making his way across the clearing as if through a battlefield. The air was heavy with the stench of blood.

“Geralt?”

His voice was half raised only. There was no need to risk luring more beasts to the party when Geralt's augmented hearing would catch on to his presence anyway. That was, if he was close enough and capable of answering.

Unsettled by the silence, he made his way towards the remains of the campfire. He found the ashes warm to the touch and wondered at the empty kettle that was carelessly tossed aside. The bedroll was disturbed as if someone had walked over it, and Geralt's steel sword and armor had been kicked into the underbrush. The silver sword, however, was missing.

“Geralt?”

Louder this time.

Roach snorted and shook her head. Expecting the worst, he set down his belongings and hesitated only a second before pulling Geralt's steel sword from its scabbard. If there was still a threat nearby, he didn't want to face it with bare hands. Experimentally, he tested its weight and attempted a strike, which turned out to be more force than precision. He firmed his lips in frustration. Well, it was better than nothing.

He started to circle the perimeter, nervous eyes flitting across the dense trees and shrubs for any sign of life. Near the end of the clearing, the ground dipped slightly, and he came across another dead wolf, killed by a singular strike across its neck that had nearly severed its head. Its fangs were bloody, and there was a scrap of black fabric stuck beneath them. His gaze wandered past the carcass and settled on a dark form that lay in the shadows, slumped against a fallen tree. Even from the distance, he could make out the deep gashes across his chest, glistening red seeping through torn clothes, white hair lank with grime and blood.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Geralt.”

He hurried towards the man even before the words were out. To his surprise, Geralt jerked up his head, a fraction only, but enough to reveal a hard glint of gold beneath half-closed eyelids.

“Stay away from me.”

The words came out as a feral growl, almost inhuman, and Jaskier stopped dead in his tracks. Beneath the smears of blood, Geralt's face was distorted by naked terror and fury. It was the look of a wounded animal ready to fight for its life.

Jaskier swallowed.

“It's okay. It's me, Jaskier.”

“Stay. Away.”

Geralt's right hand jerked up to form a sign, shaking but still incredibly fast.

“Whoa, there. Easy.”

He raised a hand that was meant to appease him, eyes transfixed on Geralt's outstretched fingers. The witcher could blast him to pieces if he chose to, could set him on fire. Jaskier had seen it happen a variety of times, to humans and monsters alike, and he wasn't particularly keen on finding out what exactly that would feel like.

Geralt's eyes were livid and devoid of recognition. He was completely out of it, he realized, caught in one of his terrible nightmares. Whatever he saw, whoever Geralt thought he was, it apparently scared the hell out of him. Jaskier didn't doubt for a second that Geralt would carry out his threat if he so much as moved a muscle.

Still, he had to move if he wanted to help him. He swallowed at the sight of the blood that soaked his shirt, the pallor of his skin. The way it looked, he might well be bleeding out, right where he had fallen.

He licked his lips.

“Okay,” he offered as calm as he could. “I'm going to stay here, alright? I'm not going to come any closer.”

Slowly, deliberately telegraphing every movement, he set down the sword, never taking his eyes off his friend. He noticed the way Geralt's chest was heaving in short, rapid gasps, the sheen of sweat on his face. The way he held his left arm curled against his chest, forearm at an unnatural angle.

“I want to help you.”

Geralt tensed almost imperceptibly, a slight tremor shaking his frame. So far, he didn't seem too intent on blowing Jaskier across the clearing, which was encouraging.

“Okay,” he mumbled to himself, keeping his distance as promised. His thoughts were racing. What now? He could wait until the man passed out, which might not take all that long, the way he looked. However, he didn't know how badly he was bleeding, so time might be an issue here.

Maybe he could talk him out of it. He could do that, he told himself. He was good at talking. At least he liked to believe that.

He sought out Geralt's gaze, desperately trying to form a connection as he lowered himself into a sitting position to get on eye-level. He figured that he was less threatening that way, not that he'd ever had to make an effort to appear even less threatening than he actually was.

“See?” He went on, voice pitched low. “Nothing to fear. I'll just remain over here. Too far away to do anything. You're safe.” He tried to project a calm into his words he did not feel, ignoring the frantic voice screaming in the back of his head that this was suicidal. If Geralt decided to blow a fireball in his direction, that was it.

“Why don't you lower that hand of yours. It's a bit scary, actually, having you aim at me like that. Feels like staring down a loaded crossbow. No? Okay.” He suppressed a sigh of frustration. “That's okay. If you feel better that way, that's okay.”

Fuck, what was he even doing here?

“Can you even hear me, Geralt?” He asked tentatively. “Please say something.”

The hand that was still aimed at him wavered slightly, and it encouraged him to keep up his soft chatter.

“Just focus on my voice. Can you do that? Whatever threat you think you have to deal with, it's not real. But I am real, and I've come to help you.”

He just kept on talking, saying the same things over and over again. That he was safe, that it would be okay. It didn't seem to help much at first, but after long minutes there was a shift in Geralt's expression, barely perceivable. Like a fog dissipating at a gust of wind.

“That's it. Just listen to me. I'm right here.”

“Jaskier?”

The whispered word was so uncertain and lost that it made his heart ache.

“Thank the Gods.” He exhaled a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly. “Yes, it's me. Can you please lower your hand?”

Slowly, Geralt complied, staring at him in utter confusion.

“Thank you, that's good. Is it okay if I get up now?”

While he was waiting for an answer, Jaskier saw a sudden wave of pain wash across Geralt's face, and the witcher curled into himself with a groan, his good hand pressing against his ribs. He clenched his teeth, brows knitted tightly, and Jaskier, unable to watch any longer, got to his feet.

“I'm going to come over now,” he said, trying hard to avoid any sudden movement that might push him back into the place he had just escaped from. “Just take it easy. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help.”

He was surprised at the rubbery feel of his legs as he crossed the distance between them and knelt by Geralt's side. He was shaking harder now, nostrils flaring. His eyes were wide and panicked, following Jaskier's every movement, but thankfully devoid of hostility.

“What are you - “ Geralt's forced the words out in between breaths, tensing as Jaskier lay a light hand on his shoulder, “doing here, Jaskier.” He swallowed audibly. “Told you – to stay away.”

“Yeah, well. You're not the only mule-brained idiot around here.”

Even through the fabric of the shirt, Jaskier felt how cold he was. He wondered how long he had lain here.

“Do you know where you are?”

Geralt nodded, face deadly pale. Jaskier started to gently look him over, trying to get an idea what exactly they were dealing with, when an icy hand closed around his wrist.

“Geralt - ,” he protested.

“No.”

Golden eyes bored into him, glazed with pain, but otherwise astoundingly clear.

“Back to camp. I don't - ,” he bit back a sound of discomfort and swallowed hard. “I don't want to spend the night here.”

Jaskier furrowed his brows in concern.

“You think you can walk?”

A grim nod.

The suggestion was sensible. It wasn't far, just across the clearing, and the ground was already cleared. With the ashes still warm, it wouldn't take long to restart the fire. They both would be more comfortable than here in the oppressive darkness of the woods.

“Alright,” he sighed, moving to Geralt's side. “Your call. Just let me know if you need to stop.”

Mindful of injuries he couldn't see, Jaskier gently draped Geralt's good arm around his shoulders, then reached for his hip to pull the man against him. The witcher responded with an agonized groan but managed to keep his feet under him. Clumsily, he braced himself against the bard who shifted to support the weight.

“Shoot, Geralt, you're heavy,” he panted, readjusting his grip to get a better hold of him. “Okay, let's get going.”

It was a slow walk, the silence between them only interrupted by Geralt's pained grunts. With their bodies so close, Jaskier clearly felt the tremors that shook him, the twitch of muscle when a particularly vicious bolt of pain took his breath. Twice, Geralt's legs gave way, and it took considerable effort on both sides to get him back to his feet again. Jaskier was infinitely glad when they finally reached their destination, and Geralt all but crumpled onto his bedroll, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Jaskier dropped to his knees beside him, knowing that he had to assess his injuries before doing anything else. Not that he was particularly looking forward to it. Geralt's clothes were drenched with blood, and he was scared of what he might find when he removed them. He had to be careful about it, too, to avoid startling him. The prospect of Geralt slipping back into that dark place scared him more than he'd liked to admit.

He lay a gentle hand on Geralt's shoulder to get his attention.

“I'll have a look at you now, okay?”

Geralt gave a small nod but failed to open his eyes. He looked completely spent.

“It would be easier if you were sitting up.”

Jaskier hated to make him move, but in order to examine his injuries, he would have to get rid of the clothes first. Geralt set his jaw. With a low groan, he started to push upright and Jaskier helpfully took hold of his shoulders to aid him along. Deftly, he tucked Geralt's shirt free and was about to push it up when his gaze fell on Geralt's bad arm, still curled tightly against his chest, and he hesitated.

“Knife's in my saddlebags,” Geralt prompted weakly. Jaskier looked at him, uncomprehending. “Cut off the shirt. It's ruined anyway.”

“Alright.”

Only that his saddlebags weren't there. Geralt cursed softly when Jaskier pointed it out, and after a moment's hesitation, he jerked his head toward the carcass in the middle of the clearing.

“Should be somewhere over there. Tried to save it from the leshen.”

Jaskier nodded. “Okay. I'll be right back.”

It turned out Geralt was right. He found the bag easily enough, half-buried under the remains of the tree-like creature and sticky with a resinous substance that was probably its blood. It took some effort to pull it free as it was firmly lodged between massive roots. At a closer look, it actually seemed like the roots had grown around it, almost as if they had been trying to tighten their grip. Baffled, but lacking the time to give it much thought, he returned to Geralt, who had reached for his blanket and draped it around his shoulders. Jaskier mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier. Of course, he was cold.

He settled on his knees in front of him and pulled the bag into his lap. It was good that he had been able to find it so quickly. Besides the knife, there were a lot of things in there that might be of use, Geralt's potions probably being on top of that list. Jaskier remembered when he had first learned about the effects of swallow after Geralt had been injured in an encounter with a wyvern. His wounds had literally disappeared overnight. If they were lucky, Geralt had one or two of those potions stowed away somewhere in his saddlebags.

His hopes were destroyed the moment he glimpsed inside. Carefully, he reached into the bag and retrieved a shattered flask coated with some residual blue liquid. He took out another one, also broken. By the smells of it, it must have contained some of the witcher's sword oil. Jaskier cursed softly as he realized what this meant.

“I guess we'll have to do without your potions.”

Geralt's lips pressed into a thin line.

“What about the tea?”

Unceremoniously, Jaskier turned the bag over to dump its contents into the grass. It was a mess, the complete contents drenched with the various concoctions Geralt carried with him. He found the requested item without difficulty, a portion of dried herbs wrapped in linen. It, too, was soaked with stinking liquid. He held it up for Geralt to see.

“This?”

He placed it into Geralt's waiting hand and watched him unfold it a bit clumsily, fingers trembling from blood loss and shock. He sniffed its contents, then twisted his face in disgust. He tossed it aside, expression dark. The look in his eyes was deeply unsettling. Despaired. Helpless.

“Geralt, what is it?”

The witcher clenched his teeth, every muscle rippling with tension, then shook his head.

“Nothing. Let's just get this over with.”

Tremors started to wrack his battered body again, and he looked so defeated, so completely drained that Jaskier felt the impulse to simply let him sleep. But he needed to see to his injuries first.

He fished Geralt's knife from the mess of glass shards and ruined food, then rinsed it thoroughly with water from the canteen. Only when he was satisfied that all possibly poisonous residue was removed, he turned to Geralt again. Gently, he slipped the blanket from his shoulders and then started to cut away the shirt, proceeding with utmost care whenever he found it stuck in a wound. Geralt remained silent except for the occasional sharp intake of breath that made Jaskier's stomach clench in sympathy.

It turned out that the damage was excessive. Kneading his lip, Jaskier inspected the deep gashes that marred his chest, the countless claw marks and extensive bruising on his back. The worst thing, however, was his left arm. He knew it would be bad, the unnatural angle of the forearm had given that much away but confronted with the bloody mess of mangled muscles and sinews, he could feel bile rise in the back of his throat.

“Shit, this looks bad.”

The edges of the wound were jagged and torn, and there was blood, so much blood. From the mass of glistening red, he caught glimpses of white, which had to be splintered bone. Radius and ulna, his memory provided. Not that naming them was going to help him treat this.

“Geralt,” he began in a small voice, unable to finish his sentence. He was no healer; he didn't even know how to begin to take care of this.

His eyes sought Geralt's, silently begging for help.

With heavy-lidded eyes, the witcher gazed down at his arm. He seemed oddly detached, almost zoned out. For a moment, Jaskier feared that he had slipped into that dark place again, where he was haunted by memories too terrible to put into words, but it seemed he was wrong. Geralt was still there. At least the analytical part of his mind was still functioning.

“Fuck,” he rumbled hoarsely. “That _is_ bad.”

“It was the wolf, wasn't it." He remembered the shred of fabric stuck between bloody fangs.

Geralt nodded weakly.

“So, what do we do about it?” Jaskier urged on, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. “Do I need to set the bones?”

“No. Just splint them as they lie.” He let out a sigh. “But you have to clean the wound thoroughly.” He raised his gaze. Golden eyes bored into Jaskier's and the seriousness in them was terrifying. “And I mean _thoroughly_. Scrub it clean, get the dirt out. All of it. And we have to stop the bleeding.”

Jaskier nodded, a lump in his throat but grateful for the instructions. He reached for his bag, looking for a clean piece of clothing and pulled out an embroidered shirt in emerald green. He noticed how much his hands were shaking and clenched his teeth in frustration. _Get yourself together, Julian Alfred Pankratz_ , he reprimanded himself. Your friend depends on you. You can get all teary-eyed and nauseous when this is over.

Using Geralt's knife, he made short work of his shirt, folded it and pressed it against the gaping wound. Geralt tensed and Jaskier's eyes locked with his.

“Can you hold this in place?” He asked quietly. “I need to start a fire and boil some water.”

Geralt gave a terse nod.

“Boil one of your shirts too. I really don't want this to get infected. Without my potions - “ he paused, wincing, then added softly, “I don't want to lose this arm.”

Jaskier nodded. He didn't want him to lose that arm either.

Or his life, for that matter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings against graphic depictions of violence in the first part of the chapter. I tried to keep the gore to a minimum, but in this case I felt I couldn't completely do without it. You'll understand once you get there.
> 
> Again, a big thank you to my lovely beta Sammys_Girl for their support. You're the best!

He was cut adrift in a dark place somewhere between waking and dreaming. Pain registered clearly on his over-exhausted mind, entwining with fever-bright visions that haunted every conscious moment. Gray eyes staring at him from the darkness. Claws slashing, digging into his flesh. Something vicious sitting on his chest, crushing his lungs and gnawing away at his arm.

A helpless moan trembled from his throat as he tried to push it away, but something clamped down on his right arm to keep him still. His left arm didn't want to move at all, seemed to be glued firmly against his chest. It was wrapped in hot agony that pulsed in time with his racing heart. For a moment, his eyes fluttered open to the hazy vision of Jaskier leaning over him, his usually cheerful face overcast by worry. His lips were moving, but Geralt was unable to make out the words. All he heard were his own labored breaths, the blood dinning in his ears, the hammering of his heart. Tremors shook him. Dimly, he was aware of a blanket being pulled tighter around him, a soft touch on his shoulder, and then darkness claimed him.

He opened his eyes to a battlefield. Shrouds of mist hung over the open space, lances protruding from the ground, a flock of crows circling over the dark heaps of slumped bodies. Wind tore at his hair as he started to walk, his steps heavy and slow. He noticed a weight in his hands and looked down at his bloodied sword. He had fought this battle, that much was clear to him. He had killed and survived. However, the details escaped him. How long had he been here? Who had he been fighting?

A sense of foreboding in his chest, he approached one of the corpses, turning it over with his booted foot and his breath caught in his throat. Triss. Her head was caved in, blood coating her face, a deep sword wound in her chest. He recoiled at the sight, stumbling over the body behind him and looked into Vesemir's face, burnt almost past recognition. His eyes had burst from the heat, his hair was scorched to the scalp, his skin blistered and black. No, he thought desperately, panting. _No_.

He tumbled over to the next fallen form and fell to his knees when he came upon Eskel, badly dismembered. Lambert. Jaskier. A sob wrenched itself from his throat. The bard's body was slashed open, his ribcage cracked, a dagger still stuck in his throat. It was a witcher's dagger. His own. They had all died by his hand.

Laughter wafted towards him, and he raised blurred eyes to the slender form that perched on a rock overseeing the battlefield. Her pale hair was neatly pinned up, a few loose strands streaming in the wind.

“ _You.”_

He swayed as he tried to get his feet under him, fury drowning the helpless pain in his heart.

“You made me do this.”

He raised a shaky hand towards her, intent on wiping that haughty smile off her face, to set her on fire, burn her to ashes until nothing was left of her. But before he could cast the sign, his hand was caught in the warm grasp of another.

“Easy.” Jaskier's voice sounded from far away. “Take it easy. Let's not do that witcher spell thing again, okay? You're safe. Relax. I got you.”

The darkness shifted. With some difficulty, he managed to crack open his eyes and blinked into the bard's worried face that was mere inches away from his own. His whole body was ablaze with pain.

“Jaskier.”

Speaking took an enormous effort, but he was rewarded with a relieved smile.

“You know where you are?”

Disoriented, Geralt's eyes wandered past the bard and onto the clearing. The shapes around him were morphing, feeling frighteningly surreal. There was a fevered glow over things, the densely spun fabric of his blanket scraping like burlap against his skin. The trees stretched into the night sky like spidery giants, grotesquely warped out of proportion.

“You've been dreaming.” Jaskier's words were followed by the light touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Lie still now, okay? I don't want to splint that arm again.”

Geralt frowned in confusion, momentarily letting go of Jaskier's hand to reach for his arm, which was secured tightly against his chest with straps of cloth. It throbbed in a deep and agonizing pain that radiated all the way to his shoulder. Touching made it worse, and a low groan wormed its way from his throat.

Jaskier winced in sympathy.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Are you thirsty?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Wait, I'll get you some water.”

Jaskier disappeared from his view to return with a canteen in hand. Geralt gazed at him from under swollen eyelids, strangely transfixed by the way he unscrewed the lid. His eyes zeroed in on the rust-brown half-moons under the bard's carefully manicured nails, traces of blood that hadn't washed off.

“Can you sit up?”

He nodded weakly, starting to push upright, and when the pain took his breath and his vision wavered, he found a steady arm wrapped around his shoulder. He slumped against the chest behind him, and before he knew it, he felt the opening of the canteen touch his lips. He drank clumsily, raising his good hand to steady the container, and when he felt his throat close up, he pushed it away. He coughed, choking on the last drop, and squeezed his eyes shut when his ribs screamed their protest.

“Enough?”

A weak nod.

“Alright, let's get you settled back down again.”

There was a sureness in Jaskier's ministrations he hadn't expected. The unwavering hands that guided him back onto his bedroll, the gentle tug of the blanket around his shoulders. The bard was actually kind of good at this. In some way, it made him feel safe, and he was grateful for that.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, and that conjured a smile on Jaskier's lips.

“You're welcome. I take it that means you're not mad at me anymore? I know you didn't want me around.”

Geralt shook his head, too sick to think of a proper response. He felt a wave of heat wash over him and pressed his eyes shut to deal with the feverish pain that followed in its wake. For a long moment, his awareness narrowed down to that sensation alone, the bone-deep ache that pulsed in time with his hammering heartbeat. From nearby, he heard the splashing of water which was followed by something cool touching his forehead, and he sighed at the blessed feeling.

“Try to rest,” he heard Jaskier say. “And let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He nodded mutely, drifting. Sinking.

When he opened his eyes again, Jaskier was gone.

Instead, it was _her_ who knelt in the darkness by his side. Serene, silent, an angel of death. The campfire gilded her hair, the glow of the fire like a halo around her head. Her eyes were dark as she gazed at him, her lips parted in a dreamy smile.

 _Not real_ , his frantic mind instantly blurted, adrenaline flushing his fever-wrecked body once more. He had no energy left; he was so fucking tired. All he desperately craved was rest. But here she was, her mere presence kicking his heart into a flight of panic again.

_She is not real. I have watched her die._

“Do I look dead to you?”

She didn't. In fact, she looked every bit as alive as she had back then, from the silky gleam of her hair to the sharp scent of herbs and smoke on her clothes.

“I cannot die. As long as you live, I live.”

He shivered as she extended her hand, trailing down the side of his face and down his chest until it came to rest on his splinted arm. The wound burnt as if on fire.

“Poor witcher,” she said softly. “Does it hurt badly? Show me.”

He didn't want to, but still found himself moving his injured arm for her to see. He even undid the bandage for her, hands shaking, revealing the gaping wound that lay beneath it. The flesh was dark and discolored, the smell nauseating. Red streaks spread from the ragged edges, winding beneath his skin like poisonous snakes. He swallowed at the sight, knowing exactly what he was looking at.

“Looks like you're gonna lose that arm. I'd tell you how sorry I feel about that, but frankly speaking, I find it quite satisfying. After all, I lost my hand because of you. So, it's kind of fair, don't you think?”

His gaze fell on the sleeve that hid the stump of her right arm.

“Why are you here?” He asked hoarsely.

A smile blossomed on her face, loving and almost warm, and her hand gently caressed his face. He would have recoiled had he been able to move.

“I've come to take you home, witcher.”

***

The laboratory was dimly lit, illuminated only by candles and a brazier in the corner. Their light reflected on countless flasks and vials that were lined up on the shelves, picked out an occasional gold lettering on the spine of a tome and cast flickering shadows about the vaulted ceiling. The room was reminiscent of Triss's workplace, except for a slight warp of dimensions, a twist to the angles that suggested that not everything was as it should be.

“What is this place?”

Triss's voice echoed strangely, as if in a cave. Pensively, she ran her fingers over a pile of books, fascinated by the realistic feel of their leather bindings. She raised an inquiring glance to the brown-haired sorceress who watched from a small distance, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She was smaller than Triss, her clothes plain and without the luxurious embroidery often seen at court. Still, she held herself with the natural confidence of one aware of their power.

“This is what the Aen Seidhe call _cyntedd_ ,” she said matter-of-factly. “The entry hall. It represents the outer layer of your consciousness. Usually, it is modeled after the part of your life that you most identify with. I guess this is your workplace?”

“My laboratory, yes,” Triss confirmed. She opened a book she had acquired just recently and frowned when she found the pages filled with nonsensical scribbling. “At least it is close enough. It feels a little odd though as if something is amiss.”

“Well, it's a representation only. If you take a closer look, you will notice quite a few deviations from the real place. Things that wouldn't normally be here. Other things missing instead; things that don't define you.” She paused, studying a rag doll on one of the shelves that seemed very much out of place. “Then, of course, there are some things you'd rather keep secret. Your subconscious would never put them on display here, but rather hide them away. It's a natural defense mechanism against intruders.”

Triss frowned, bewildered. “But I invited you in.”

In fact, she had asked for her help. After her first attempts at this particular spell had failed spectacularly, she had requested the assistance of someone familiar with this kind of magic, and Tissaia had referred her to Corinne Tilly. While Corinne was primarily an oneiromancer and specialized in clairvoyance and prophetic dreams, she was one of the few mages who were familiar with the human mind on its deeper levels. It had taken some convincing, but in the end, she had reluctantly agreed to show her the basics.

“Well, you can always decide to show me,” Corinne explained patiently. Triss noticed how the sorceress carefully kept her hands to herself. “But the architecture of this place, the exact shape of this reality is - for the most part - beyond your control.”

“For the most part? So, I do have _some_ kind of influence on what things look like.”

“Every dreamer has the ability to change their dreams to some degree. However, there is a limit to things, and usually your subconscious will get in the way if you become too bold. You'd be wise to remember that it's not you who is in control here.”

Triss nodded. It was a concept she was familiar with. Like most mages, she had experienced lucid dreams before, but her control had usually been limited to her own actions. Who to talk to, how to react. She had never been able to shape her surroundings according to her imagination, hadn't even been able to use her magic. She wondered if it was even possible.

“It is,” Corinne answered her unspoken question, and her smile widened at Triss's startled expression. _Of course, she knows what you're thinking,_ she chided herself _. She's in your head after all_.

“It just takes a lot of practice.”

“Alright.” Triss nodded, taking in the information. “So how do we get to the deeper levels?”

“Well, first of all, we need to form a proper connection.” The sorceress extended her hands in invitation, and Triss hesitated, a little bewildered. Corinne was in her head already. What was she talking about? Corinne's lips tugged upwards. “As I said, this is the entry hall. To go deeper, our minds need to merge.” She gently collected Triss's hands in hers. “Let me show you what an elven mind meld really feels like.”

Closing her eyes, Triss heard her murmur something under her breath, words barely identified as the melodic language of the Aen Seidhe, and felt her reach out. She expected the gentle brush of a mind against her own, the selective touch of thoughts one experienced during telepathic connections, but this was different. This was frightening. She felt her mind opening like a bud in spring, petals curling backwards, layer by layer, responding to the caress of first sunlight after a long winter. Bathing in the light that had sprung from the spell, she opened wider, and when she thought she had reached her limits, she opened wider still, until her very core came apart. She could sense her then, feel their souls touch with every fiber of their beings. Thoughts not yet fully formed. Memories long forgotten. It was all there, within reach.

She opened her eyes to see her space suffused with a different reality. Where there had been a wall of dusty shelves before, was now a fireplace with a striped rug in front of it. A collection of wooden figurines was lined up on the mantelshelf, each one a masterpiece of craftsmanship. As Triss turned, she noticed a cushioned armchair, worn but comfortable with two cream-colored pillows. A simple bed in the corner, covered with a brightly colored patchwork blanket. Even the contents of her shelves had changed. Some of the books were her own, others she had never seen before. Curious, she picked up a small ebony box from the table, turning it in her hands. When she opened it, she found a bundle of dried flowers. The scent of lavender filled the room, mingling with rosemary, poppy, lilacs and roses.

“I didn't know you liked gardening,” she said softly, bewildered by the sudden understanding. These were the first flowers that had grown in the garden behind Corinne's cottage, and she had kept them. A happy memory of the first year in a new home. She wanted to ask about it but found she didn't have to. She knew already. The labor the other woman had put into it. The endless hours of pulling up weeds and preparing the soil. Watering the plants when the summer got dry.

She raised her gaze to meet Corinne's.

“This is amazing,” she said softly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of the insight. If this was the entrance hall, the outer layer of consciousness, she wondered what the deeper layers would contain. What other memories would be stored there, easily accessible for both of them. All of a sudden, she wasn't sure if she still wanted to go there.

“I see you understand.” Corinne's eyes were serious. “This demands a great deal of courage – and respect.”

Triss watched the other woman stroll around the room, hand skimming over scrolls of parchments and handwritten notes, each touch like a brush against her soul. Her hands finally came to rest on a silver pendant. Triss recognized it at once. It was nothing she had ever kept in her lab, but this place was inside her head, she reminded herself. Watching Corinne run her fingers along the delicate engraving felt like someone playing the strings of your heart. It brought back memories of her mother. Mending socks by the fireplace. A bedtime story told at candlelight. The smile on her round face at a bunch of flowers, picked from the fields behind their house.

“Mariam.” Corinne uttered the name at the same time it took shape in Triss's head.

“She died in childbed when I was six. The pendant is the only thing I have left of her.”

Corinne nodded. “I know.”

Triss felt infinitely grateful when Corinne put the pendant back on the table. It was a memory she had not been prepared for and she felt the same old hurt well up in her chest she had felt all those years back. The candles flickered as if disturbed by a gust of wind and it grew cold. Triss inadvertently slung her arms around herself to fight off the chill.

“What is happening?” She asked, unsettled by the sudden change.

Corinne followed her glance, expression unreadable.

“That's the manifestation of your emotional response. Take a deep breath and calm down. We don't want this to turn into a storm.”

Triss shivered, trying to do as she was told. It was difficult though, bordering on the impossible. The hurt was fresh in her mind. She remembered standing at her grave, her name carved into the stone. Fresh flowers on dark soil. The wind picked up, and as she turned, she saw the candles being snuffed out one by one.

“We don't want to be caught here in darkness,” Corinne said sharply. “You are a sorceress. Control yourself.”

Triss took a deep breath and looked around the room. Think of something else, she told herself. Something beautiful. Something happy. It was strange how the place looked so different now as if all her bright memories had suddenly been washed away. Behind her, a window burst and a gush of water streamed in, flooding the room. Panic started to take hold of her.

“I can't,” she cried out in frustration. “Corinne, get us out of here!”

“Control yourself.” Her voice was firm. “You're planning to travel a traumatized mind. What chance do you stand of helping him if you can't even control your own pain? You'd just end up drowning him in your grief, adding your hurt to his injuries. Do you want that?”

Triss cursed under her breath, knowing her to be right. Again, she tried to focus, this time turning her attention inward, away from the mess around her, the rising water level, the books floating with the current. Slowly, she let go of a long breath, counting the exhalation. _One._

The water reached up to her hip now, cold and dirty. Seawater, a part of her mind provided, but she let go of the thought. She breathed out again. _Two._

The wind died down at three.

She stood still, remaining in her trance until she reached ten, then raised her eyes to meet Corinne's gaze. An approving smile played around her lips.

“Well done.”

“I didn't think it would be that hard,” Triss sighed, feeling drained. “Why didn't you help me?”

It would have been easy for Corinne to summon one of her own memories to help control the situation. Something happy to anchor them both in the face of hurt. Yet she had chosen to hold back, purposefully allowing the events to unfold.

“You know why.”

Triss sighed, rubbing her face. Of course, she did. Even without the spell melding their minds, she would have known.

“To prove a point. You don't want me to carry through with this.”

Triss pulled up her dress as she waded through the muddy water and made an effort to sit on the edge of a table. When Corinne approached, she gave her a hand up. Together they watched the contents of the shelves float on the surface as the water level slowly decreased. Empty vials, old letters. A dark green piece of clothing which at second glance turned out to be a girl's dress.

“It's insane,” Corinne said at length. “You have no experience when it comes to this kind of magic. All I had to do was pick up the wrong item, touch a painful memory, and things went to shit. The human subconscious is ruled by emotion. If you can't control your feelings, you're lost. And the deeper you go, the more likely you are to stir things that are best left alone.”

Triss nodded, letting that sink in.

“Is it always like this?” She asked at length. “When emotion overwhelms you. Does the environment just burst in on you?”

Corinne tilted her head to study her, her dark hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain.

“In some way or another.”

“So, what would have happened if I hadn't been able to stop it? Would I have drowned?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “And then you would have woken up, the grief fresh in your mind. We weren't down deep enough for you to be in any real danger.”

So it was different when you traveled deeper. It wasn't exactly a comforting thought.

“Can you die here?” Triss asked tentatively. “I mean, really die. Physically.”

“No. Your body won't die from what you experience here. Your mind, however - “ Corinne raised her shoulders. “That's a different matter. You might face things that your mind simply can't handle. Doors can fall shut for good. You can get trapped here.”

 _We have lost some good mages that way_. Tissaia's words still rang clearly in Triss's mind, and having experienced it firsthand, she was starting to understand what exactly that meant. Still, Triss wasn't one to be discouraged easily. With an experienced guide, she might be able to prepare sufficiently. She raised her head to cast Corinne a questioning glance.

“Not today.” The sorceress shook her head. “You've been through enough. We both have.”

The water was almost gone now, leaving a mess of damp books, scrolls and bottles on the floor. When Triss hopped down, her feet landed on something long and hard, and when she reached into the dirty water, she was surprised to pull out a silver sword, its blade carved with runes. It felt strange in her hands, unfamiliar, with none of her memories attached. Stranger still, it didn't elicit a gush of Corinne's memories either. This item, wherever it had come from, stayed curiously mute.

Puzzled, she turned it in her hands, watching the blade catch the light of the few remaining candles, and noticed smears of dried blood.

“Where did this come from?”

She turned to look at Corinne, who wore a weird expression on her face. With their minds merged, Triss could feel the other woman's bewilderment as if it were her own. Tentatively, Corinne took the weapon from Triss's hands and ran her hand down the blade, eyelids drooping. Focusing. Reaching out.

Something bright flashed before them, too short for Triss to make sense of, but Corinne's eyes widened slightly.

“You've been in his mind before.”

“What?”

Corinne shot her a look that was challenging, almost judging.

“You have been in the witcher's mind. Otherwise it would be impossible for his sword to be here.”

So, this was Geralt's sword. Strange, how she had not noticed it at once. Then again, she had never bothered to look at it up close.

“What does that mean?” Triss asked carefully, not sure if she wanted to know the answer.

“I don't know,” Corinne admitted thoughtfully. “But I sense something dark. Confinement. Desperation. Do you have the means to check in on him? Because if you do, I wouldn't waste a breath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to introduce another original character from "Witcher III - The Wild Hunt". I realize that not everyone will be familiar with Corinne Tilly, but I didn't want to overload the chapter with character background information. I hope you have been able to follow. If you feel that there needs to be more explanation, please let me know.
> 
> The terms in hen llinge are all Welsh words provided by google translate. I remember reading somewhere that Sapkowski based the elven language on Welsh, so it felt like a good idea. Apologies to any Welsh speaking readers who are probably laughing their heads off ;-)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It appears I have failed to meet my self-imposed deadline, sorry about that! Real life can be a bitch sometimes. I sure hope this was worth the wait :-) 
> 
> Again, a big thank you to my lovely beta reader Sammys_Girl. Your support helps a lot to keep me motivated.

The brook water was so cold it almost hurt, but Jaskier welcomed the icy chill. He was bone-tired, and the sensation washed some of the weariness away. Crouching at the waterside, he splashed a couple of handfuls into his face and rubbed his neck, then raked his fingers through his hair. Before him, sunlight sparkled merrily on the water's surface, and shreds of fog veiled the foot of the trees along the shore. It would be a beautiful day. Under different circumstances, the view would have inspired him to a song or a poem. However, the way things were, the poet in him was utterly silent.

Jaskier sat back on his haunches, suppressing a sigh while Roach beside him drank her fill. It wasn't only the physical exhaustion that was getting to him. The long night of watching over his sick friend had left him emotionally drained as well. It had been terrible to watch Geralt slip from nightmare to nightmare, crying out either in pain or terror, and not being able to help. Jaskier had spent endless hours kneeling by his side, cooling his brow with water from the brook and keeping up a constant low chatter, hoping that somehow his mumbled reassurances would penetrate the wall of fever. It hadn't seemed to do much good.

In the end, it had been exhaustion that had put Geralt to sleep, and the witcher hadn't woken since. When Jaskier had checked on him earlier, he had been out cold, and the bard had decided it best to let him rest. There was a long journey ahead of them, and he needed all the strength he could get. They both did.

As he refilled the canteens, Jaskier noticed a stain of blood on the sleeve of his tunic. Distractedly, he rubbed at it, knowing full well it probably wouldn't come out. Gods, he wished he were a healer. There had to be something he could do, some plant in this godforsaken forest that possessed healing properties. But the only plants he knew were the ones he could gift to a lovely lady and the ones he could order at an inn. Beside him, Roach snorted and he shot her a tired glance.

“You're right,” he sighed. “Time to get back to camp. You're probably hungry, aren't you?”

She nickered softly as if she understood, and he smiled wanly, letting her nuzzle his palm. No wonder Geralt liked to talk to her. If one lacked human company, she was quite a comfort indeed. Seemed it all depended on the state of mind you were in. He patted her neck.

“I guess it's time to check on Geralt then. See if we can't rouse him.”

He picked up the canteens and took hold of Roach's bridle, gently leading her along. Truth be told, he had no idea what to do if he couldn't wake him. There was no way he could hoist an unconscious man into the saddle, and considering Geralt's injuries, he didn't even want to consider tossing him across Roach's back like a sack of potatoes. It would be hell on his broken ribs, not to think of the deep slashes across his chest.

Jaskier was still pondering on it as he reached camp and was caught by surprise when he saw a woman kneeling at Geralt's side. She was slender, her face hidden under a mass of dark curls as she leaned over him. At his approach, she looked up and nodded her greeting.

“You must be Jaskier.”

Stunned, his grip tightened around Roach's tethers. He had never seen her before, but considering that she had literally appeared out of nowhere, there was only one explanation he could think of. She was a sorceress. She looked like one, too. Her face was ageless in a way one associated with mages, and beneath her gray traveling cloak, she wore a shimmering green dress whose fabric alone must have cost a fortune.

“Triss Merigold.”

She introduced herself before he could ask. Foltest's mage, he mentally added. The sorceress that Geralt had spent so much time with. Relief flooded him at the realization. With things being as they were, this was a fortunate turn of events.

“How did you get here?” It was the first thing that came to mind, his mouth working before his brain kicked in. Instantly, he chided himself for asking such a stupid question. She was a mage. The answer was probably magic. “Not that I mind,” he rambled on. “Your presence is more than welcome. Although I might add, it would have been great if you had shown up a little earlier.”

He instantly regretted his last sentence when he saw her lips press into a thin line. Only now did he notice the shadows under her eyes, the stricken expression on her face. It was a look he knew all too well from Geralt, when the witcher had failed to finish a contract to his liking. When someone had gotten hurt.

“I portaled here once I found out.”

Her voice was level, but Jaskier caught the wet shimmer in her eyes. Quietly, she turned her attention back to Geralt, who lay pale and unresponsive. Beads of sweat glistened on his skin. Jaskier tethered Roach and approached hesitantly, suddenly scared to find out how he was really doing. What if he was dying?

“How long since he was last awake?”

She didn't look up, merely moved her hand to his throat, feeling for a pulse.

“A couple of hours,” Jaskier replied, shifting nervously. “Depending on how you define awake. He's been in and out of it for the better part of the night.”

She nodded, taking in the information.

“He's only found rest in the early morning hours,” he went on, feeling the need to fill her in. He didn't want to risk her missing something important. Something that might help. “I didn't try to wake him. Thought it might be better to let him sleep.”

“He isn't sleeping,” she said softly. “Not really.”

Looking at Geralt's face, Jaskier could see what she meant. Pain ghosted across Geralt's features, his eyes darting back and forth under closed lids. There was a slight twitch of brows, a shallow breath hitching in his chest.

“He's having another nightmare.” Jaskier unnecessarily said it out loud. “Can you make it stop?”

“I've tried to.” She shot him a glance, giving him a sad smile. “I really have. But he is too far gone. I can't reach him.”

She brushed her hand across his forehead in what looked like an attempt to smooth the frown from his face. He noticed the gentleness of the gesture, the hurt in her eyes, and then it clicked. _What the fuck, Geralt. You told me there was nothing between the two of you_.

“Then wake him.”

“I can't. And even if I could, he probably wouldn't even know us,” she said bitterly. “When did he receive these injuries?”

“Just yesterday.”

She peeled back the bandage around his chest to inspect the slashes beneath, then gently probed his ribcage to feel for cracked bones. When she removed the dressing on Geralt's arm, she bit her lip. The wound looked exactly as bad as the day before, if not worse. He saw the swelling, the angry red of the gaping wound, the pale glimpse of bone. You didn't have to be a healer to see the signs of beginning infection.

“I cleaned it the best I could,” he said helplessly, feeling utterly inadequate. “He told me not to try and set the bones.”

“Good advice,” she retorted, examining the wound. “No offense, but this is not how you splint a broken arm.”

Jaskier felt his throat close up. Of course, he'd done it all wrong. If only Geralt had been awake to talk him through it – but he had been completely out of it. The pain from cleaning the wound had done him in. He kneaded his lower lip, watching as her skilled hands repositioned the splint and wrapped the arm in a fresh bandage.

“I'm sorry,” he said, devastated.

She looked up, noticed the look on his face and sighed.

“No, I'm sorry.” She shook her head. “I shouldn't have said that. You did the best you could. This isn't your fault.”

The smile she offered did little to ease the load from his chest, but he tried to believe her. Suddenly he realized that he had to be making a pretty weak impression here, bags under his eyes, ruffled shirt and everything. Self-consciously, he ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to fix that much at least.

“Will he be okay?”

“I don't know. His arm needs surgery, and even with a good portion of magic, there's still a chance it might not heal properly. As far as his mind is concerned - “ she sighed. “I just don't know.”

She turned to look at the contents of Geralt's saddlebags that lay on the ground nearby, a heap of broken flasks and soiled food.

“Where's the tea?” She asked, carefully inspecting the mess.

The tea. Jaskier instantly remembered the small package of dried leaves soaked in witcher potions and sword oil. Geralt had tossed it aside, it still had to be somewhere around. Jaskier quickly spotted it in the grass, just a few feet away, and handed it to Triss.

“It's ruined,” he told her unnecessarily, watching as she sniffed it and pinched her face at the stench. “Must have happened during the fight. What is it for?”

“It was meant to help with the remains of the curse. Doesn't look like he used it much. Can you tell me when he had the last cup?”

He raised his shoulders.

“I don't rightly know. He brewed one when we first made camp, spilled half of it if I remember correctly. I don't know if he had any after that. I only found him again yesterday evening.”

“You parted ways?”

“Well, it's more like _he_ parted ways with _me_. Sneaked off in the middle of the night.” He paused when he realized how angry he sounded and took a deep breath before continuing. “When I found him, the fight was already over. He didn't even know where he was, or who I was, for that matter. Threatened to blast me right across the clearing.”

Her brows furrowed.

“Did he hurt you?”

There was honest concern in her voice, and his remaining anger dissipated. He hadn't expected her to care.

“No. No, I'm okay.”

She tilted her head, gazing at him inquiringly, and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. Mages could read minds, couldn't they? She probably saw right through him. Saw the exhaustion, his worry, everything. Then again, one probably didn't have to be a mage to notice.

“Alright,” she said at length. “Let's get him out of here. Can you pack up? I'd like to leave here as soon as I can.”

***

His hands were bloodied from banging against the walls.

He could not see it in the darkness, but he felt the warm stickiness on his knuckles, tasted the copper in the air. He did not know how long he had been here, slumped in a corner of the too-small room, staring blindly ahead. He was not used to complete darkness, his mutated eyes always revealing something, catching on to the slightest shimmer of light, but not in this place. There was no door, no window. Just cold stone and blackest night.

Sometimes he heard voices from beyond the walls, whispering into the deafening silence. They were voices that mocked him, taunted him. They spoke of Renfri dying at his hands. Triss choking under his grip. They spoke of all the wrongs he had done, the people he had failed to save. Sometimes he heard Celaena's voice, listing the names of those he would kill for her yet, the crimes he was still to commit.

 _Not real_ , he mumbled, pressing his hands against his ears. _This is not real._

But he didn't believe it anymore. He remembered Celaena kneeling by his side in the clearing, remembered her touch on his head. _I have come to take you home._

He had been here ever since.

He pressed his hands harder against his ears, pleading for the voices to stop, and sobbed in frustration when it didn't help. Not real, he repeated to himself. Not real. _Not real_. In a spell of desperation, he slammed his head against the wall, and the pain drowned out the taunting voices for a moment. It was a short respite. When they returned, he did it again, harder this time. Pain shimmied down the back of his skull, spreading down his shoulders and into his arm, setting his ribs on fire. It almost took his breath, but he embraced it. It was grounding.

He had never thought that he'd welcome physical pain like that. He clung to it like a drowning man, grateful for every beat of silence it brought. Dimly, he was aware of Vesemir's voice, his low rumble penetrating the wall of hurt. It was full of contempt. He called him a failure, a disgrace to his kind. Directing his sword against innocents like that. Visenna's voice chimed in. _That's why I left you._ _You_ _were worthless to begin with. You deserve to suffer every remaining moment of your life._

A sound of misery hitched in his throat. Once more, he flung his head backwards, desperate to make them shut up. Needing to make them stop, to finally leave him be. He was prepared for another burst of pain to rip through his skull and was surprised when the wall wasn't there. Instead, he found his head connect with something soft, gentle hands taking hold of his face to keep him still.

“Easy, you're hurting yourself.”

Triss? It couldn't be, she had left for Aretuza. But it was her touch on his face, her smell that enveloped him. He tried to reach for her but could barely lift his hand, couldn't even open his eyes. He felt his head tilted up a little, the rim of a cup press against his lips.

“Drink,” she admonished. “Slowly.”

Something bitter was coaxed down his throat, one small sip after the other. He knew the taste, this particular mixture of herbs. Valerian, hop, passionflower. He swallowed instinctively, and when the cup was removed from his lips, he found himself shivering, exhausted.

He felt her hand brush a strand of hair from his face. She was talking to him, he realized, but he was unable to make out the words. The voices were still there, mean and spiteful, the darkness looming. Helplessly, he turned towards her, searching her, and when her hand returned to his cheek, he pressed his face into her palm. She was here. Her scent, the warmth of her touch. It was really her. He was vaguely aware of the blanket being tugged a little farther up his shoulders, the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

_Sleep._

He did, and this time, he didn't dream.

When he woke, he found himself looking at a wooden ceiling. Daylight fell in beams through narrow windows, casting bright rectangles onto the walls. The air was thick with incense and medicinal herbs.

He blinked, confused at his new surroundings. He distinctly remembered lying in a clearing, hurting fiercely, packed earth beneath his back. He was hurting less now, the mattress under him nice and soft. Other glimpses of memory came back to him – Jaskier's eyes, clouded with worry. Triss's tea, soiled beyond helping. His arm, mangled and bloody, bone protruding from a gaping wound.

_Looks like you're gonna lose that arm._

Anxiously, he felt for his arm and was relieved to find it still there, expertly bandaged and immobilized against his chest. Touching it hurt though, and he grimaced, a groan sitting in the back of his throat. Whatever pain medication he was on, it wasn't anything strong.

“Geralt?”

There was noise to his right, a chair screeching. Soft footfalls approached, and then Jaskier's face appeared in his field of vision. Geralt could smell the remains of lavender-scented soap on him.

“Hey, glad to finally see you awake.” The joy on the bard's face was heartwarming. “How are you?”

Disoriented, he cast a glance past Jaskier, still trying to make sense of his surroundings. This was not Triss's place, and by the lack of noise, it was not an inn either. He licked his lips.

“Where am I?”

“Vizima. The temple of Melitele.” He frowned in confusion and Jaskier went on to elaborate. “Your broken arm needed surgery. It was too complicated for Triss to do all by herself. But I'm told it went well.”

Geralt shook his head, trying to remember, and failed.

“I don't recall any of that.”

“Well, you were mostly out of it.” The brightness in Jaskier's eyes dimmed. “I hope you're feeling better now. At times, I thought you were losing it.”

He still felt like it. Disconnected, as if all this was just a dream. Even the sight of Jaskier felt strangely surreal, like an illusion brought on by an evil spell. For the glimpse of a moment, he was back in that black prison, and he put his hand to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. Voices rose in the darkness, and he could distinctly make out a single voice, _her_ voice, mocking him.

“Geralt?”

He took a measured breath, trying to center himself, and winced when the pain in his ribs flared up, threatening to take his senses.

“I'm okay,” he ground out.

“Well, you don't look like it. I'm gonna go and get Triss.”

The words barely registered, drowned by the roaring in his head. He felt the world around him fading, reality slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers. He didn't even hear him return, just felt the mattress dip as someone sat down on the edge of the bed. A hand came to rest on his brow, accompanied by the scent of jasmine.

“Geralt, can you look at me?”

Her voice sounded clearly in his head, and the witcher medallion hummed against his chest. Magic seeped through him, permeating his mind and slowly dissolving the darkness that clouded his vision. The taunting voices faded. Within moments, he felt more grounded, more awake, more _here._ Unfortunately, it also brought back the pain of his various injuries, and he clenched his teeth, pinching his eyes shut.

“Fuck.”

“I'm sorry,” she sighed. “I know you're hurting. But it seems the pain medication dulls your mind, and right now that means you descending further into chaos.”

He gave a curt nod, understanding. He didn't want that. If presented with a choice, he'd rather suffer every waking moment in pain than returning to that dark place that suffocated his very being.

He opened his eyes to look at her and she gave him a small smile. The golden touch of daylight flattered her complexion. It seemed like forever since he had last seen her although he knew that it had only been days. It had been only days, hadn't it?

“How long - ?”

His mouth was dry and he swallowed, unable to finish the question.

“Almost two days. I would have liked to put you in a healing sleep, but I didn't dare to. It would have meant to leave you to your dreams.” She paused, studying him. “It's gotten worse, hasn't it?”

He nodded mutely. There were no words. Apparently, they weren't needed, as he felt her hand wrap around his, pressing his fingers.

“I could sense your suffering, but I couldn't reach you. Melitele, I am so sorry.”

He frowned, bewildered. What would she be sorry for? His eyes traveled to Jaskier who was lingering at a short distance, obviously feeling the need to give them some space but unwilling to leave. When he saw his questioning glance, the bard raised his shoulders.

“You were right about this,” Triss admitted brokenly. “Your nightmares, your anxiety. Everything. It's the anchors in your mind. The remains of chaos are like arrowheads in a wound causing infection. And I told you, they wouldn't harm you.”

He saw her chin tremble and reached for her face, unable to find the words to soothe her. If not for her, he would have already been dead. Worse, he might have suffered the end of his days as a slave, unable to command his own body. She had done all she could, to the best of her abilities. Not for a second, he had doubted that.

 _It's not your fault_. It was strange how he couldn't say it out loud, how his lips were sealed shut at the hurt expression on her face.

Silently, she reached to place her hand on his.

“Please forgive me.”

“Um – should I leave you two to yourselves maybe?”

She froze, lips firming, and turned around to glare at Jaskier.

“You're still here?”

“Why – yes, of course, why wouldn't I?”

“Well, would you have the decency…?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, I'm waiting outside. Not that this is any of my business, being his _friend_ and all.”

He shot her a glance that spelled complete indignation and made for the door. As soon as it fell shut, Triss turned to him again. Whatever sentimentality there had been in her eyes was gone. Her mask was back in place, her demeanor still gentle but more composed. He was talking to a healer now. It was a relief of sorts, and it encouraged him to address the topic that was weighing on his mind.

“You have returned from Aretuza,” he said slowly, almost afraid to ask. “Does that mean you have found a cure?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “There is a way to remove the anchors from your mind. You won't like it though, and if I'm honest, neither do I.”

Her evasiveness was unsettling.

“It can't be worse than this.”

He meant it too. A couple of days ago, the words would never have passed his lips, but after all, he had been through – the hallucinations, the nightmares, the experience of completely losing touch with reality – whatever needed to be done, he was okay with it. If she had to enter his mind, he would bear with it, even though the thought of a mage prodding around his thoughts still scared him in a way that was bordering on painful.

“It's risky,” she said reluctantly, “and I won't be able to do it without your help.”

He didn't even have to think twice. If there was any chance to make this go away, he would happily go for it.

“Triss, whatever you need to do - “

He didn't finish the sentence when he saw the look in her eyes. She was dead serious about this. There was no sugar-coating, she meant every word exactly as she said it.

“Do you know what an elven mind meld is?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

She nodded, having expected that. He looked at her expectantly, wanting her to go on, and she let go of a long breath.

She spelled it out for him then. The way it exceeded the connection of common telepathy. How it would grant her access to the deeper levels of his subconsciousness where the curse had been anchored. What was likely to be stored there. She talked of suppressed memories resurfacing, fears being forced into daylight, hopes and desires stripped bare. She talked of the risks it bore for the both of them. How she would learn about him and he about her. That they would both be vulnerable, mentally and emotionally. That they would have to protect one another to make it as safe as possible.

When she finished, he felt cold, his heart constricting in his chest.

“You will see everything,” he said slowly, his eyes searching hers. “Triss, you have no idea what you're asking for. The things I've been through. The things I've done - “ He shook his head. “I cannot ask you to do this. I won't.”

“I have thought it through, and I have made my decision,” she said calmly. “My offer stands.”

“No.”

After all his suffering, he would have gladly jumped at any chance to make it go away. But this? He would rather die than have her slip into madness because of him. Hell, some of the things he had experienced had almost pushed him over the edge, and he was a witcher. He had a mind of steel. A lot of his training had been aimed at mastering emotion, honing his will. Plus, he'd spent a lifetime dealing with his dark memories. If she carried through with this, she would have to face them all at once.

“I'm not going to try and save my sanity at the cost of yours.”

“What makes you think I will not be able to deal with this?” She retorted. “I'm a sorceress, I've had my share of misery, and I am just as trained in meditation and harnessing my emotions as you are.”

“You're not a witcher.”

Her lips firmed.

“No.”

She sighed, frustration sounding in her voice, and Geralt could see the wheels turning behind her eyes as she tried to find a new angle.

“Look, Geralt, I'm not sure if you grasp the gravity of your condition. I barely managed to bring you back from that mental prison. This will get worse pretty quickly. If we don't act soon, I don't know how much time you have left.”

It didn't matter. If anything happened to her during the mind meld, he would never be able to forgive himself. Enough people had suffered because of him, he wasn't going to add another one to that list.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly, finality in his tone. “But the answer is no.”

The expression on her face was so lost that it almost hurt. She had hoped this to go different, he realized, and faced with his answer, she didn't know what to do. Silently, she shook her head, eyes desperate as she searched for the right words, something to sway his mind. She was a sorceress though, perfectly able to read his mind. She knew that he had made his decision.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse.

“Well, it's your choice. I won't make you do this.”

His mouth was dry as she touched his arm and stood, avoiding his glance. He noticed that her hands were shaking.

“I've left some tea on your nightstand. You are to drink three cups a day, it should slow down the mental decline. Buy you some time. I'll check in on you in the morning.”

“Triss - “

He didn't want her to leave like that. He needed to explain, make her understand that this was not about him refusing her help. This was about protecting her, making sure that she didn't come to harm. She met his glance, waiting for him to speak, and when he didn't, she sighed softly.

“Please give it some thought. I need to prepare in case you change your mind. Jaskier will keep you company.”

Her smile was forced.

“See you tomorrow.”

When she opened the door, she almost bumped into the bard who took a hasty step backwards to let her pass. He looked after her, startled, then cast Geralt a questioning glance, but the witcher just closed his eyes, clenching his jaw shut. This was not something he wanted to talk about. This was between him and Triss, and Jaskier didn't get to have a say in it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, a little early this time thanks to the second corona lockdown. Hope you enjoy :-)
> 
> As always, special thanks to the lovely Sammys_Girl for betaing and keeping my spirits up!

The garden behind the temple was white with frost.

Geralt sat on a bench in a wind-shielded corner close to the main building, cloak wrapped around his shoulders, and watched the sunrise. It had been a struggle to get out of bed this morning, especially without waking Jaskier. Despite Geralt's assurances that he would be fine, the bard had insisted on staying with him throughout the night, and this morning, he had found him fast asleep in the chair, head tilted back against the wall and snoring. It hadn't been the first time he'd had to get dressed using one arm only, but he had managed while keeping quiet. Actually, he was kind of proud of that. It felt like a small victory.

As he gazed at the fallen leaves dancing in the breeze, he wondered how many conscious days he had still left. Maybe this would be his last fall. He wondered if he would still live to see the new year, or if he would lose his mind before that. Triss had made her point, and he had no reason to doubt her assessment. The past days had made it pretty clear what he was to expect.

He hadn't slept much this night, having spent hours pondering on her suggestion. He was surprised himself how much he had mulled it over, considering that there really wasn't much to think about. Of course, he wanted to get better, was desperate to get his life back. But not at this cost. It meant that he'd better come to terms with the consequences, and they frightened him more than he had thought possible. Being a witcher, he had never expected to die of old age. Most of his brothers had died before even completing the trials, and quite a few had met their end soon after. They had died in violent ways, all of them, and he had always known that this was his fate as well. It was not the concept itself that scared him. He had just never pictured to go like this.

The mind-meld was his only chance, he knew that. However, it went against everything he believed in. Witchers had been created to serve humankind, to keep them safe from monsters in whatever form they appeared. It was not the other way around. Allowing Triss to put herself at risk – for someone like him? It was the wrong thing to do.

“I see you're up early.”

He lifted his head, surprised to find Triss standing only a few feet away, her features shadowed against the light of the rising sun. Wind tugged at her dark hair. She had her arms folded across her chest, trying to keep her fur-lined cloak together. She didn't look like she had slept much either.

“Mind if I sit?” She pointed at the free spot beside him, and he shifted to make room for her. Her shoulders touched as she settled beside him, eyes following his glance. He could feel the warmth of her body even through the layers of fabric.

“It's quite beautiful, isn't it?” She paused as if giving him a chance to answer, and when he didn't, she went on. “The sunrise. I love it when the light pours across the frosty landscape like this. It's almost like things are glowing from inside.”

It was an odd way to start a conversation that was bound to become uncomfortable. She obviously hadn't come to admire the scenery. The casual way she spoke reminded him of the night she had caught him on her balcony, offering her support in a similar way. Quiet, unobtrusive. She didn't look at him, merely remained at his side, inviting a response.

He didn't feel much like talking though. Truth be told, he rarely did. He had mainly come here because the confines of his sick room were stifling him. Staring at the ceiling could become daunting after a while.

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” she said at length. “Coming out here all by yourself. How's your arm?”

There was no point in lying about it.

“It hurts,” he answered truthfully. “But it's healing. You've taken good care of me. Thank you for that.”

He had checked on his injuries earlier, and there had been no signs of infection. Whatever spells she had laid on his wounds were working nicely. As far as his arm was concerned, it was nothing short of a miracle. The way it looked, he had a fair chance that it would heal completely, despite the extensive damage he had taken. It looked like he would still be able to hold a sword. Not that it mattered, given his mental issues.

“Have you thought about my proposition?”

He felt her glance weighing on him but couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. She had done so much for him, siding with him against Celaena, letting him stay at her place until he had physically recovered. Now she had even saved his arm. He could only guess at how much time she had put into trying to remedy the aftereffects of the curse, to find a cure. It made it all the harder to turn her down because he was well aware of what it would look like. It would seem like he didn't appreciate her efforts, which was simply not true. He was grateful for everything she had done.

“I've thought about it all night,” he admitted hesitantly, taken aback by how broken he sounded. “And I appreciate what you've done for me, but the answer is still no. I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry too.” She sighed, sounding just about as miserable as he felt himself. “You know, at first I thought I'd just chosen the wrong moment to tell you. It had been your first lucid moment in days, and you were still in so much pain. Exhausted. I thought, maybe you just needed some time to get used to the idea. Now I think that maybe I should start all over again. Although, frankly speaking, I'm not sure if we have the time.”

He nodded mutely. He doubted they had much time either. Not that it changed anything.

“Are you sure you don't want to give it a try at least?” She asked tentatively. “We could start slow, you know. A simple, lose connection. You could see how much control you have, see if you feel safe enough.”

He ran a hand across his face, rubbing his eyes that stung with exhaustion.

“This is not about me feeling safe,” he clarified. “I do feel safe with you. But I've been so unfocused lately, I don't think I could protect you.”

“What makes you think I need protection?”

“Fuck, Triss.” He let out a tortured groan. “My life has been a real shit show at times. You have no idea what it takes to be a witcher, least of all become one.”

“I've heard the stories.”

“You think that's the same?” He knew he sounded angry but couldn't help it. Her naivety was infuriating. “Stay out of my mind, Triss. I mean it. I know you want to help, but I'll never agree to put yourself at risk like that. I'd rather spend the rest of my life in misery.”

“Geralt, please. You are constantly putting yourself in harm's way to save others. What makes you think you're the only one entitled to sacrifice? Maybe it's time someone returned the favor.”

“I'm a monster hunter,” he argued stubbornly. “It's my profession to put my life on the line. I've been trained for it.”

“And I'm a healer and a sorceress. Sometimes that means taking risks as well.”

His objection died on his lips, and he snapped his mouth shut. There was no way to argue with that. Still, he felt there was a difference, even if he couldn't pinpoint it exactly.

“Well, this is still my decision, and you're not taking _this_ risk.”

He hoped that she would catch the finality in his words. Frankly, he had thought that he had made himself clear the day before, and the whole debate was irritating him. Part of him wished that she would just leave him alone.

“God damn it,” she whispered, “you and your ridiculous idea of heroism.”

She wiped her sleeve across her face, the movement sharp and impatient as if she was angry with herself, and it took him a moment to realize she was crying. His anger evaporated instantly. Something clenched in his chest, and he stared at her, completely lost.

“Triss -”

“I care about you,” she burst out. “You probably think it's mighty chivalrous of you to refuse my help. You'd rather die than let anyone risk their hide for you. But have you ever thought about the people around you? How it will make me feel if I have to watch you slowly go insane? How it will make Jaskier feel?” She broke off, glaring at him with glistening eyes. “He risked his life for you, trying to find you in that monster-infested forest. Are you really going to tell him that it was all for nothing?”

He gazed at her mutely, not knowing what to say. She had a point there, of course. On the other hand, he had never asked Jaskier to come to his aid. In fact, he would have preferred if he hadn't.

“You haven't even told him about it, have you?” She read the answer in his eyes and shook her head in disdain. “Of course, you haven't.”

“Triss, this is unfair. I just want to protect you.”

“Then protect me. For Melitele's sake, protect me. Guide me to the places where the curse is anchored in your mind and keep the bad stuff away from me. But allow me to help you. And don't worry about whether I will be able to take it. I can deal with this. I am not as weak as you think.”

If only he could believe it.

“I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me.”

Something melted in her gaze and she leaned towards him, her fingers wrapping around his hand. They were cold from the biting wind, almost fragile in his strong palm.

“You realize I feel the same way, right?”

Something ached in his chest, something he couldn't put a name to. He felt his throat constrict at the sensation of her hand curled around his, the sight of her face so close to his. The pain in her eyes. It was the same feeling that made him refuse her plan so vehemently. Now he felt torn in two opposite directions. He didn't want to hurt her, yet he felt there was no way not to.

“Geralt, please say something.”

“I don't know, Triss,” he said helplessly. “What do you want me to say?”

“You know what I want you to say. Say yes. Say that you'll at least let me try.” She searched his eyes, pleading.

“I can't.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth to reply but found himself unable to spell it out for her. The only thing he could think of was Triss being trapped in that mental prison he had just escaped from. Black walls too thick to break, spiteful voices whispering in the darkness. The feeling of utter and complete desolation. It was nothing he would wish on her.

“Don't worry about me, please.” Triss's voice barely registered, her hand resting on his forearm. He realized that she had caught on to his thoughts, probably had started to read them when he had zoned out. Three days ago, it would have made him unspeakably mad, now he was almost too tired to care. “I can help you, Geralt. Please, let me do this for you before it gets worse. Before anyone else comes to harm.”

He tensed at her words. The image of Jaskier came back to him, crouching on eye-level, one appeasing hand stretched out towards him. He had almost killed him back there in the woods, simply because he didn't know where he was and who was talking to him. He had been like one of the creatures he always hunted, acting on instinct alone, incapable of conscious thought. Who could tell how much damage he would do if he didn't act now, how many people he would hurt? Innocent people. The thought made him physically sick.

If only there was a way to make it go away. One that didn't include Triss putting herself at risk.

But there was a way. It was a thought that had come to him at some point during the night, one that he had done his best to ignore. Now it came back with a vengeance. He was a witcher, after all, and it was his job to kill monsters. Sure, he lifted a curse when he could, just as he had done with the striga, but if a creature was beyond his help, he would take its life without hesitation. To end the suffering, to keep others from harm. It was as simple as that.

Only this time, he himself was the monster. So, really, the solution was obvious.

He swallowed drily.

“I won't let it come that far.”

He didn't have to elaborate, she understood his meaning perfectly well. Her expression dropped at his words, and she shifted to sit on the edge of the bench, trying to catch his gaze.

“Please tell me you don't mean that.”

She peered at him, eyes wide, and he felt her hand cup his jaw, prompting him to look at her. He didn't even bother to hide the hopelessness that he felt. It was the right thing to do. The responsible thing. He knew that without doubt.

She must have realized that as well because her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I'm sorry, Geralt,” she said softly, the look on her face one of utter devastation. Her fingers brushed against the side of his face and he closed his eyes. “I know I promised.”

He didn't get to ask what she was sorry for. He was gone before that.

When he came to, he found himself slumped on a bench in the temple garden, his face cold from the wind. The air was crisp, morning light gleaming on frost coated flowers and trees. Bewildered, he sat up a little, rubbing his face and groaning at the lingering pain in his arm and ribs. He must have dozed off. Slowly, memory returned – Jaskier fast asleep in the chair, his struggle to get dressed by himself. Damn it, the brief walk outside must have tired him out more than he'd thought. However, he couldn't have been out long. The sun had barely climbed above the horizon, and he didn't feel hypothermic. Thank the gods for small mercies.

Crunching footfalls sounded in the gravel. When a shadow fell on him, he lifted his gaze to look at Triss, who was approaching in a leisure walk. Wind ruffled the fur that lined her cloak and tugged at her hair. Her eyes and nose were slightly reddened. He wondered if she had been crying or if it was just the cold.

“Good morning,” she greeted. “Mind if I sit?”

He frowned at the weird sensation of deja-vu, then shook his head at himself. In the past days, he had spent such a huge amount of time tangled between illusion and reality, it probably didn't mean anything. At least, he knew she wasn't an illusion. He made room for her, inviting her to join him.

“I see you're feeling better,” she said casually as she perched beside him. “Out here all by yourself. How's your arm?”

“Still hurts,” he replied truthfully, bewildered by the familiar taste of the words on his lips. “But it's healing thanks to you.”

She returned his smile, but there was something off about it. Something he couldn't quite place. Maybe it was the way she didn't hold his gaze for long, the nervous tension in her shoulders. If he'd known any better, he would say she was ashamed. But it didn't make any sense. What would she be ashamed for?

“Have you thought about my proposition?”

The question sounded odd in his ears, as if he had heard it before.

 _You have_ , he reminded himself. _She asked you just yesterday_. He remembered thinking about it all night, and he had planned to tell her that he was sorry he couldn't take her up on her offer. However, now that she was sitting beside him, he couldn't remember why he had been so adamant about refusing her help. She was a sorceress, after all. She'd never suggest this if it wasn't safe. Besides, it wasn't like she hadn't been in his mind before.

“I have.”

Her smile was encouraging, and if there had been any doubts left, they would have vanished this very moment. The way she looked at him, eyes warm with reassurance, he had no idea why he had doubted her. It would be okay. He could trust her.

“I think you're right.” For once the words passed his lips easily. “I think we should do this.”

“I'm glad you've changed your mind.”

He nodded, a load falling off his chest. Only now he realized how much strain he had been under, how much the decision had troubled him. It was a relief to finally be at ease.

“I'm glad too.”

It concluded their conversation, as simple as that. They sat quietly for a while, side by side, enjoying the relative silence of the morning, the noise of the city almost distant behind the high temple walls. A gust of wind brushed through the fallen leaves, lifting them up in a rustling swirl of brown and yellow. Streaks of orange bled into the blue of the sky. It was peaceful in a way he hadn't experienced much in the past weeks. When her fingers hesitantly curled around his hand, he adjusted his grip to warm them, squeezing them gently. They were cold from the biting wind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out to be twice the length than the others - not sure that's a good thing. I've had more second thoughts about this installment than with the other chapters, especially about the romantic aspect, and if you feel like giving me some honest feedback on that part, I would truly appreciate it. Anyhow, thanks for reading :-)
> 
> Again, my deepest gratitude to Sammys_Girl for betaing and for their moral support. Self-doubt has become a whole new dimension since I started writing again, and you're doing a lot to keep me sane.

She had made the right call.

The words had become her mantra in the course of the day. As Triss got to her tasks to prepare the ritual, grinding the herbs for the incense and purging one of the vacant rooms at the temple from its aura of sickness, she mentally repeated the words over and over. She mumbled them to herself when she drew the complex chalk layout on the floor so she could start to layer the spells that were needed, and they were still on her mind when she lit the candles when it became dark outside. She had made the right call.

Even now, she couldn't see any other way to save him. He was coming apart, had suffered for weeks already, and there was no end in sight. From now on, it would only get worse. If at least time hadn't been an issue, she would have returned to Aretuza and tried to find another way. But the moment he had mentioned suicide, she knew that she'd have to act now, or she'd regret it. So, in her desperation, she had ignored all thought of what was right and used her powers to sway his mind, forcing his consent to the most intimate connection imaginable.

It hadn't been hard either. His mind had already been weakened by the curse, vulnerable to manipulation, and she had taken advantage of that. Without much effort, she had erased his short-term memory and subdued his doubts, so he would allow her to try and cure him. It had been the only way to help him. She had made the right call, she knew that. So why did she still feel so guilty?

She sighed, running a hand across her face. No matter how often she mulled this over, it would do nothing to ease her mind. Deep inside, she still hated herself for what she had done, for going behind his back like this, betraying his trust. No matter how noble her intentions, no matter the outcome, nothing would ever change that.

May the gods help her if he ever found out.

She had taken precautions against it, of course. It had been the first thing she had done after they had parted ways this morning. The mind-meld would allow him to read her thoughts, and the way she felt right now, he would easily catch on to her shame. So, she had used one of Corinne's spells to create the mental equivalent of a box, a chest of secrets. It would free her of those painful feelings for the duration of the ritual and allow her to focus. Most importantly, it would also keep them from Geralt's grasp. She had postponed the moment for as long as she could, unsure how long the locks on the chest would hold.

With the ritual prepared and the sun setting, it was about time. She settled on the floor, back straight, and closed her eyes. The calm of meditation didn't come as easy as she was used to, but eventually, the nagging thoughts quieted enough for her to slip into a trance. The small chest was still there, waiting silently, just as she had left it. She ran her fingers across its carved lid, making sure the rune of silence was firmly embedded. Then she recalled the fateful minutes she had spent with Geralt this morning. Her futile attempts to make him see reason. Her emotional outburst. The final moments when she had pushed past his mental defenses to force his decision. When the last detail slipped into the chest, she snapped its lid shut and fastened the lock. Then she stored it away in a dark and silent corner in the back of her mind.

When Geralt entered with a soft knock at the door, it was already dark outside. She opened her eyes to greet him, a small smile on her lips. She was ready.

“Geralt. You're just on time.”

He lingered in the doorway, as if unsure whether he really wanted to come in. She saw his eyes travel the room warily, taking in the bed in the corner and shuttered windows before dropping his gaze to study the chalk pattern on the floor. The outer circle was lined with candles.

“Looks complicated,” he commented. Nervousness transmitted in his words, and she had to suppress an impulse to actually take him by the hand. She knew he wouldn't take it well.

“You'll be fine,” she said instead. “We both will.” She gave him an encouraging smile and nodded toward the center of the circle. “Why don't you sit? I'll be with you in a second.”

She caught a movement at the doorway and noticed Jaskier sticking in his head. He looked a little worse for the wear, as if he hadn't gotten a lot of sleep lately. As far as she knew, he had never left Geralt's side, so her estimation was probably not far from the truth. She was grateful for it. His presence had been a great help, not that Geralt would have ever admitted it, and when the bard had learned about what Triss was trying to do, he had readily agreed to stay close, just in case.

“Thanks for coming.” She nodded her appreciation. “Could you please wait outside?”

“Um, sure.”

The disappointment on his face stuck out a mile. Obviously, he had hoped to watch.

“I'll call you if we need you.”

He cast Geralt a questioning glance as if to make sure he would be alright, and when the witcher nodded, Jaskier retreated without complaint. He even closed the door behind him.

Triss watched with concern as Geralt lowered himself to the floor, settling in the exact spot she had indicated. A wince accompanied his stiff movements as he knelt, the standard pose of meditation less than perfect. It had to be his ribs that still gave him trouble. The bandages on his arm and chest glowed in the light of the flickering candles. He looked pale; the color of his face almost as ashen as his hair.

“Why don't you lie down?” She suggested. “I'll get you a blanket to make you comfortable. The ritual will work just as fine.”

He gave a wan smile and shook his head.

“Let me do this the proper way. It'll be easier to focus.”

Stubborn as ever. However, she didn't feel like arguing and he might even have a point.

“Alright.”

She settled on her knees opposite of him, mirroring his pose, and their eyes met. There was a nervous silence between them, a certain shyness. Sure, she had been in his mind before, but not like this. This would be far more intimate. There was no telling what they would learn about each other, what memories they would stir.

“Anything you would like to talk about before we start? Any questions?”

They had already discussed it, had gone through every singular step over and over again. He knew what to expect, what to do, and what not to. They had agreed to respect each others' spaces as much as possible, refraining from touching things if it could be avoided. As far as everything else was concerned, they would just have to see.

He shook his head.

Hushed voices sounded from the corridor, engaged in low conversation, and she could make out Jaskier's baritone. The knowledge that the bard was waiting outside was a great relief. He would get help, in case either of them resurfaced from the connection in a state of emotional turmoil. In case something went wrong.

“I'm ready.”

His eyes met hers, defenses down, and he gave a small nod. He trusted her with this.

“Okay then,” she mumbled. “Try to relax, I'll go slow.”

She took a deep breath to center herself, then summoned the chaos around her. She felt it sizzle in the air, traveling along the chalk lines to culminate in the center, ready to be channeled according to her will. The candles flickered as if from a gust of wind.

Tentatively, she reached to touch the junction points of energy on his face to initiate the connection.

“Close your eyes,” she prompted, voice low, and his eyes slipped shut.

It was easy to guide him into a trance. His mind was pliant, non-resisting, and she proceeded gently, as if easing a child into the bathing water. She waited for the tension to leave his shoulders and his breaths to deepen. Then she followed.

***

The room was furnished in a practical way that bordered on austere. She looked at a simple bed in the corner, covered with furs and a roughspun blanket, a plain oak chest at its side. The fireplace lay cold. Her gaze traveled across rough, black stone walls and well-worn floorboards, passed over narrow, diamond-paned windows. Shafts of stale, gray light fell inside. The color of winter.

 _Kaer Morhen._ The information appeared in her mind as if from nowhere. The witcher's castle, hidden away in the blue mountains of Kaedwen. Geralt's retreat.

The place felt like him, vibrant with the energy she remembered from the first time she had entered his thoughts, yet at the same time, something felt terribly wrong. It was like a dissonant chord in a song, the taste of milk gone sour. This place was diseased. Rotting. She frowned, noticing the chill that seemed to seep in from nowhere, the underlying scent of mold. The wall beside her wept with moisture. Pensively, she touched her fingers to the bricks, feeling the damp cold, and snapped her hand away when a flash of memory struck her mind.

Voices screaming in the darkness, the echo of scornful laughter. Celaena.

She blinked, confused. Not what she expected.

“So, you can sense it too.”

She turned to find Geralt standing behind her. He looked exactly like the day they had first met in the woods, a travel-worn black cloak over studded armor, his swords strapped to his back. His arm was healed, just like the wounds on his chest.

“I do,” she confirmed, troubled by the overall feeling of decay that hung in the room. “Has it been like this the whole time?”

No wonder he couldn't sleep. If her mental refuge felt like this, she wouldn't be able to sleep either. Now that she thought about it, the atmosphere bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the castle Foltest had abandoned. The one haunted by the striga.

“Ever since I awoke at your place, yes,” he admitted openly. He furrowed his brows, tilting his head to listen. “The whispers have gotten louder though. It's almost as if she knows we're here.”

A tremor ran through the walls at his words, the earth shivering beneath their feet. Plaster crumbled from the ceiling in a fine cloud of dust. She cast a nervous glance upwards and licked her lips. Suddenly she grasped Tissaia's warning in its true extent, Corinne's cautioning. _You are planning to travel a traumatized mind._

What if his mental space crumbled around them before they had completed their task? What if they got trapped in the deeper layers of his mind? There was no way to sever their mental connection once they were down there; they would have to fight their way back up.

“You don't have to do this,” he said, reminding her that he was well able to read her thoughts. She shook her head.

“I do.”

She wouldn't allow fear to get the better of her. She was a sorceress, and a damn good one at that. She could do this. Taking a step forward, she pushed all second thoughts from her mind and focused on her affection for him instead. Her desire to help, her need to see this through for the sake of them both.

His brows creased and he shook his head, bewildered.

“What - ?“

“Come here.”

She extended her hands to beckon him closer. He needed to know. He would learn anyway; it would do no good to stave it off. Remembering the way his fingers had curled around hers this morning in the garden, she felt he might understand. At least, he wouldn't think any less of her for it. So, she allowed her feelings for him to surface, trusting that it would be alright.

Touch had a different quality here, she remembered that from her lessons with Corinne, and when he finally gathered her hands in his, she again found it to be true. He was so close now, the barrier dividing them translucently thin. With a quivering exhale, she adjusted to that new intimacy and felt him react the same way. For a moment, they stood completely still, fingers touching, waiting for the ripples on the surface of their minds to calm to reveal what lay below, and suddenly she understood. She realized just how deeply the curse had affected him. She saw the overwhelming feeling of guilt, of utter failure. How hard he had been struggling to contain his suffering, to not become a danger to the people around him. The fear of becoming a monster himself when all he wanted was to protect the ones who were important to him. The ones he loved.

The last word echoed in her chest, and she felt realization dawn on him. Up till now, he had not grasped it, not completely. Now that he did, his eyes widened, and she knew his answer before she had even asked.

“Triss, I – I didn't know.”

 _Why didn't you tell me?_ He didn't have to say it out loud, she caught the question the moment it took shape.

“Because the right moment never arose.” Her voice was softened by regret. “You were so sick. You had other things to deal with, and I didn't know how you would react. I was afraid I would drive you away.”

He gazed at her mutely, processing her words.

“You should have said something.”

She gave him a small smile. “And how would you have reacted?”

He opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it. A memory returned to him, and she could sense it as clearly as if it was her own. Him standing on her balcony, gazing into the night after one of his nightmares. His refusal to talk. The way he had exploded right in her face when she had read his mind.

He sighed.

“You're right.” His thumb brushed across her knuckles as if in apology, then gently squeezed her fingers. “So, how about now?”

She frowned, trying to get his meaning, and before she could ask, he leaned towards her. Tentatively, as if asking for permission, he reached to cup her face in his hand. The moment his lips found hers, she melted into him, and he responded by pulling her closer. She wrapped her hands around his neck, feeling his breath on her face, his stubble prickling against her skin. All conscious thought vanished, and she held on to the moment for as long as she could, knowing it couldn't last. Because even now, she felt the shadow on his mind, the insistent whispers in the darkness.

The floor trembled beneath them, shaking them both, and she opened her eyes, firmly propelled back into the present. Damn this place. It would do them no good to linger.

Reluctantly, they pulled apart.

“Later,” she mumbled reassuringly, and he nodded, repeating her words.

“Later.”

It was time to cast her final spell. The one that would truly unite them and allow them to venture deeper. Again, she reached for his hands, but this time, she kept her emotions in check and focused on summoning the chaos to bend it to her will. It worked just as planned. Slowly, she felt the thin layer that separated their minds dissolve, and when she opened her eyes, she perceived the same changes in the space around her she had experienced with Corinne.

It was still Geralt's room, spartan and plain, but it was also hers - bookshelves disappearing into vaulted shadows, candles flickering in near-complete darkness. She made out the shape of a saddle lying next to her desk, spied foreign flasks among her vials. His blanket on her bed. The voices were louder now, taunting and screaming behind the walls and below the flagstones of the floor. The air was scratchy with the scent of mold.

Geralt's hands slipped from hers and he inhaled sharply, eyes wide. She could feel his apprehension as if it were her own, felt his impulse to draw his sword as he scanned the place, looking for a threat. There was none. They were alone. Still, she felt danger nearby, lurking just out of reach in the places the light could not touch. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a small chest hidden away under her bed, its lid adorned with the rune of silence. A single frost-rimmed leaf lay on the ground next to it, reminiscent of the temple garden.

His eyes followed hers, and she felt the frown on his face more than she saw it. _Don't look_. Heart pounding, she touched his wrist.

“Don't get distracted,” she urged him. “We must stay focused.”

For a long, terrible moment, she thought he would crouch down nevertheless, reach under the bed to inspect the chest, but then he just nodded.

“You're right."

She breathed a soft sigh of relief, careful not to let it show in her thoughts.

“Do you know the way?”

He was asking for the subconscious spaces of his mind, the rooms that had never seen the light of day, and she nodded. She could sense the entrance nearby. Following her instincts, she strode into the center of the room and kicked away the rug. Beneath it lay a trapdoor, its iron handle seamlessly fitting into the floor. The way down.

The hinges creaked as they levered it open. There was no light down there, stone steps the color of obsidian disappearing into darkness. A gust of cold air carried a putrid scent up from the depths. Mold. Rot. Decay.

Triss shivered and felt Geralt react the same way. She was down there, hiding in the darkness. A living memory. Triss grabbed a candelabra from the next table and made to descend the stairs but was stopped by Geralt's grip on her arm. She saw that he had drawn his sword.

“No.” He said firmly. “I'm going to lead the way.”

***

The air was suffocating. Triss lifted the candelabra to light the corridors that stretched either way from the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes traveled down the left one to the point where it melted into darkness, then looked down the other way. There were junctions every now and then, and with an unsettling feeling of foreboding, she realized that she was looking at a maze. Something Corinne hadn't mentioned. What if they got lost down here?

“We won't.”

She cast him a questioning glance, raising her brows.

“The draft from the trapdoor,” he explained patiently. “The only source of fresh air. I'll always be able to get us back here.” A predatory snarl sounded from the distance, echoing strangely from the smooth, alien walls, and the grip on his sword tightened. “Stay close.”

Triss made sure to follow his command to the letter. Several times she cast a glance back over her shoulder, the bright beam from the open hatch shrinking behind them, and when they turned a corner, it became truly dark. They passed countless junctions, all of them looking the same to her. However, Geralt didn't hesitate as he led them onward, turning left or right with an unmistakable sense of direction. Gradually, the stench of decay grew stronger. She didn't notice it at first, but when she did, she realized that he was following it to track down its source. Apparently, his heightened senses worked even here. It was a marvel, something she had never even considered possible. Still, the fascination was overshadowed by an urgent feeling of dread. There were eyes in the darkness watching them. Geralt could sense it as well. His apprehension filled her mind, making her skin prick.

They had just turned another corner when he extended a hand and came to an abrupt halt.

Before them, like a ghostly apparition in the darkness, stood a woman, and it wasn't Celaena. Her face was pale, red curls cascading down her shoulders like a fiery waterfall. Her ornamented, linen dress stopped just above her ankles. Geralt's thoughts sounded in her mind as clear as if he had spoken aloud.

 _Visenna. Sorceress. Mother_.

_Oh._

She was about to step closer but was held back by Geralt's hand. It was then she realized this was not a pleasant encounter.

“What do you want?” Geralt's voice was hard-edged, tension rippling from him in tangible waves.

She didn't speak. She just stared, studying them with green eyes devoid of emotion, scrutinizing, judging. She tilted her head slightly, and for a moment it seemed like she would respond, but then merely walked past them. Her sleeve brushed against Triss's arm before she seamlessly melted into the darkness. For a moment, Triss felt the overwhelming urge to run after her, driven by the irrational fear to never see her again.

_Mother._

_She was alone in the forest, cold and frightened to the core. Her mommy was gone. She had left without any word. No explanation, no goodbye. Heart pounding, she veered to look around her, ran down the path they had come, trying to find her mother's cart, the horse. They were gone. Her chest was so tight it was impossible to breathe. I don't know the way home. Why did she leave me? What have I done wrong?_

“Triss?”

_She felt the grip of a strong hand on her arm and looked up into the face of a stranger. Graying hair, a square chin, the athletic built of a swordsman. 'I have been waiting for you.'_

_Screams in the darkness. She lay on a hard bed, burning with fever. Her skin was on fire, her blood boiling. Cramps shook her so hard she thought her bones might break. The worst thing however were her eyes. She thought they might burst from inside, throbbing with a relentless force that increased with every beat of her heart. Someone whimpered in the room next to her, a child just as young as herself. Amidst the agony, she was only capable of one coherent thought that repeated itself over and over again._

_Ma, why have you left me?_

_She sobbed, helpless tremors wracking her body. She must have failed her. She hadn't been good enough. It had to be that, there was no other explanation._

“Triss, look at me, damn it.”

Calloused fingers grabbed her chin, but she couldn't see. Her eyes hurt so damn much.

_She stared at the small bodies in the pit. Lips blue, blood trailing from empty eyes, faces contorted in silent agony. She might_ _as_ _well lie among them. It was a miracle she had survived. A heavy hand came to lie on her shoulder. Vesemir. 'You are stronger than them.'_

Golden light trickled down her face, soft and warm. Some sort of crude magic, her dazzled mind provided. Simple, but effective. Bit by bit, the tension subsided, and a sigh trembled from her lips. She was sitting upright, leaning against something hard and cold, a strong hand on her shoulder keeping her from toppling over. The touch grounded her, and she held on to it as if for a lifeline. Only now she became aware she was panting.

“Triss?”

She blinked and Geralt's face swam into focus. His eyes were dark with worry.

“Damn it,” she cursed under her breath, rubbing her temples. She still felt the magical residue there, sticky like a coat of honey. _Axii._ She caught the information from Geralt's thoughts. So that's what a witcher's sign felt like. “What the hell was that?”

“Childhood memories,” Geralt said, clearly not in the mood to elaborate. He cupped her chin to gently direct her gaze towards him. “Are you alright?”

Triss shook her head. She was sick, her stomach clenching in the most terrible way. For a brief moment, she thought she would have to throw up. All those children, their small bodies twisted and broken beyond healing, their faces contorted masks of agony. The image didn't want to leave her mind.

He tightened his lips, disturbed by the experience as much as her, and withdrew. The lack of touch was felt instantly.

“Maybe we should head back,” he suggested.

The thought made her tense up. She didn't want to give up. They were so close, she could feel it.

“No.”

She made to push up, leaning against the wall for support.

“Triss, you can barely stand.”

“Just give me a moment.”

She felt his concern. He feared for her, more than for himself, and she understood why he reacted the way he did. After all, she had been in his position more than once. But now was not the time to retreat. With overwhelming clarity, she felt that if she went back now, she might not have the courage to try another time. Not after what she had just seen.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, then bent to pick up the candelabra that had fallen from her hand and re-lit the ones that had been snuffed out. The flickering light didn't do much to brighten the space, but it comforted her nevertheless. She took a few wobbly steps down the corridor, hesitating when she arrived at a junction and didn't know which way to go. She turned to cast him a questioning glance and he looked at her doubtfully.

“Are you coming?”

She knew she was being cheeky. Maybe it was his stubbornness bleeding into her in this shared space of consciousness, but she was determined to finish this. He sighed, and she felt his unhappiness as if it were her own. He gave her a tired look, then nodded at the junction opposite hers.

“That way.”

***

The moment they entered the room, Triss knew they had reached their destination.

The rotten stench that had led them here was tangible now, thick and offending. She could taste it on her tongue, feel it wrap around her like a filthy blanket. Here was the source of the decay. This was where Celaena had anchored her curse.

Their footsteps echoed hollowly, reflecting from the vaulted ceiling and shivering across naked stone walls. Reddish light flickered from the braziers that were grouped around an operating table in the center of the room. The place bore relevance for Geralt, she didn't have to ask to know. It was where they had conducted the trial of the grasses when he had been just a boy. The graying man bending over the bloodied form on the table was also familiar to her. Vesemir. The closest thing to a father Geralt had.

The older witcher looked up as they entered, his face haggard. Blood smeared his tunic and reddened his arms up to the elbows. His eyes were dark pools of desperation.

“I have tried to get them out,” he addressed them, “but they are buried too deep.”

He had to be talking about the anchors of the curse. Troubled, she cast her eyes on the man on the table who lay deadly still, face slack and white. It was Geralt. He was naked to the waist, his chest cracked open, ribs spread by some kind of iron device to reveal his slowly pulsing heart. Dark tendrils of chaos wormed their way from his insides and down the table, blackening the floor beneath him and disappearing into the shadows of the room. The darkness there was throbbing with ill intent.

She felt Geralt go rigid beside her.

“Are you alright?” She mumbled, touching his arm. He nodded.

“You go and have a closer look.” His voice sounded strained. “I'll watch the door, just in case.”

He didn't have to elaborate. The fact that they hadn't run into Celaena so far, didn't mean that she wasn't around, and she understood if the sight of himself on that table rattled him. She probably wouldn't have been as composed if she had been in his place.

“Agreed.”

She squeezed his arm in response. Geralt's hand tightened around his sword as she approached the table. Vesemir watched her attentively. His eyes were catlike, just like Geralt's, but they shimmered in a paler hue. To her relief, she didn't see any hostility in his face.

“My name is Triss,” she introduced herself. “I'm here to help.”

“You're a sorceress.”

She wondered how he knew but then discarded the thought. It wasn't important.

“Yes.”

She placed the candle stand on a narrow table that held a collection of operating tools. Most of them gleamed with fresh blood. Her eyes caught on the saw that had been used to open the ribcage and she set her jaw. She wondered how much of what had been going on here had entered Geralt's nightmares.

“Will you allow me to take a look?”

The witcher stepped aside to let her pass, and when she asked for the scalpel, he readily handed it to her. Triss turned to inspect the supine form on the table, casting a quick glance into the still face before tending to the task at hand. He looked almost dead. From up close, she could sense the intense aura of malice that emanated from the pulsing tendrils weaving into Geralt's flesh. She counted five in total. The tissue around them was black and necrotic.

Carefully, she slipped the scalpel under one of the tendrils, and a gust of wind licked at the candles, icy and unexpected. Her head jerked up, trying to locate the source, and noticed that Geralt and Vesemir reacted the same way. Bodiless laughter sounded around them.

“The blond witch,” Vesemir murmured, eyes scanning the room vigilantly. “She's close.”

Geralt drew his sword, expression grim. “You've seen her?”

“Wish I hadn't. Let's say she is less than pleasant company. Killed her at least a dozen times but she always comes back.”

Triss shot him a concerned look.

“Don't worry,” Vesemir told her. “We'll keep her off your back. You just get those barbs out.”

The witchers exchanged a brief glance, and Geralt tossed Vesemir his sword, which the older witcher caught effortlessly. Then Geralt reached for his silver blade. It slipped from its sheath with a metallic hiss. The laughter around them grew louder.

“Where are you?” Vesemir mumbled under his breath. “Show yourself.”

Trusting the witchers to keep her safe, Triss focused her attention on the man before her. Tentatively, she started to trace the cords of chaos and found that they were hooked into the heart itself, boring into the muscle from below. In order to remove them, she would have to touch them, but considering the damage done to the surrounding flesh, it was likely that the mere contact was harmful. She would have to protect herself before she could proceed.

“Geralt, behind you!”

Her eyes shot up as Vesemir shouted the words. Behind Geralt, the shadows had solidified into something human, and he swung around just in time as a woman emerged from the darkness. Wind tore at her pale hair, her gray eyes dark and dangerous like a sky before a storm. Magic sizzled around her single hand. Celaena.

The instant he saw her, fire burst from Geralt's fingers, and a fluorescent dome flickered around the mage as it hit. A force field, Triss assessed automatically. It would be tough to break through. Still, it was two seasoned witchers against one sorceress. The odds were in their favor.

Geralt lunged into battle, ready to get at her with his sword, and Triss managed to tear her eyes from the fight. She had a different task to accomplish.

Trying hard to ignore the way her heart raced in her chest, she worked a protective spell around her hands and gently gathered his heart. She could feel the chaos throb in time with his pulse, felt the tiny barbs that hooked into his muscle. She would have to remove them one by one, employing the same spells she had used weeks ago when she had first tried to lift the curse.

A frustrated shout from Geralt distracted her for a moment, but she pushed it away. She needed to focus. She bit her lip as her fingers brushed over a bump just below the aorta and focused her spell, narrowing it down to exactly this location. It took a beat until the barb dissolved under her fingertips, and when it did, one of the black tendrils came loose. It slipped to the floor with a wet smack, lifeless and slack.

Deciding she could risk a glance, she looked up to see Geralt advance on Celaena. Vesemir, however, stood completely frozen, his eyes vacant. Frowning, she took in the red smears on his tunic where he had wiped his hands, probably to get a better grip on his sword. Then her gaze dropped to his hands, and she swallowed when she noticed the blotches of black on his skin. They resembled the ones on Geralt's flesh where the tendrils had touched.

Slowly, Vesemir lifted his head, and when his eyes settled in her direction, realization hit her like a punch in the gut. His eyes were black with chaos.

For a moment, she thought he would attack her, but then he raised his sword against Geralt, aiming at his back.

“Geralt, watch out!”

It was unnecessary, Geralt had already noticed. When Vesemir charged at him, sword slicing down on him in a controlled swing, Geralt was prepared and parried the strike. But he would have to fight them both now, Celaena and his former mentor, and Triss saw electricity sizzle down the blond mage's hand already. It was the same spell Celaena had cast when they had fought her in the old tower room, and Triss vividly remembered the damage it caused. She had no idea what exactly would happen if they were killed here, but she wasn't eager to find out.

Seeing that Geralt's attention was occupied in the fight with Vesemir, Triss summoned the chaos around her to form a counter spell, trying to stifle the crackle of electricity in the air. It worked surprisingly well, and the lighting that had been about to burst from Celaena's fingers was instantly reduced to a sorry whisper of sparks.

Gray eyes swiveled towards her.

“You!”

Triss could feel Celaena's anger reverberate in her mind, a screaming torrent of blind rage, and she readied herself for another attack.

“Triss! What the fuck are you doing?”

She veered to see Geralt deflect a powerful thrust of Vesemir's sword, then push the older witcher backward with a burst of magic. He cast her a quick glance that burnt with urgency.

“I can stall them. Just do your job!”

He rolled backwards, bringing distance between himself and Vesemir, who seemed momentarily stunned, and slashed at Celaena. The physical attack caused her protective shield to flare up and caught her attention, giving Triss room to work.

Aright, she told herself. Let's do this. Her eyes snapped back to the man before her. She had removed one of the anchors already, which left four more to go.

Now that she knew what to do, it was easier. However, their situation was catching up with her and her hands had begun to shake. Thank Melitele, she didn't have to use a scalpel. Cautiously, she traced the throbbing muscle, feeling for the telltale bumps where the curse was anchored. She was aware of Vesemir grunting as Geralt got a hit in, followed by the green flare of protective magic, but she didn't look up. She had managed to remove two more of the barbs when Geralt's shout rang out.

“Get down!”

She ducked instinctively. It wasn't a moment too late, as a burst of energy jarred the room, sending a blast of pure white light into the wall behind her. Mortar and pulverized stone crumbled to the floor in a cloud of dust.

“Damn it,” she ground out between clenched teeth, her heart hammering in her chest, then shouted, “I thought you could handle her!”

“Well, not forever! Hurry up, will you?”

It was easier said than done. She didn't want to accidentally stir the tendrils of chaos and risk tearing at the barbs in his heart. She came up a little, risking a peek across the table at Geralt engaging Celaena and Vesemir in fight. He was barely holding his own, slashing at her protective shield, landing blow after blow while trying to duck Vesemir's continuing attacks. She saw that he was bleeding from a cut at his temple, and he was limping slightly. Celaena's hand was already bright with light as she prepared another spell.

There was a deep rumble from the ceiling, the crack of stone and wood, followed by mortar crumbling from the vaulted ceiling. It seemed like Celaena's spell had done more damage than intended. She wondered how long the construction would hold.

Trembling, she once more gathered Geralt's heart in her hands. There were two more barbs, and then they could get out of here. She heard the clang of steel hitting steel, then a groan that was unmistakably Geralt's. _Hurry up, Triss. You can do this._

Pushing the clamor around her aside, she focused on her fingers feeling for the remaining two bumps. There they were, close to each other. She let go of a breath, relieved. Almost done. The first one came apart at her touch of magic, the attached cord of chaos joining the other ones on the floor.

However, there was something different about the last one.

It took a moment until she realized what it was, and when she did, her breath hitched in her chest.

Lightning flashed across the room, and she instinctively dived behind the table, arms protecting her head. Close to her, part of the ceiling came down, taking half the wall with it and burying shelves and vials under the rubble. She heard Vesemir scream, a body hit the ground. When the dust lifted, she saw Vesemir's prone form on the floor, bleeding from a gaping wound in his chest. Further back, Celaena towered over a downed Geralt. The burns on his face and arms told her that the burst of energy had hit him full blast. He was still breathing though, and when Celaena wanted to reach for his sword, his hand clutched around her wrist.

Still, rocks and debris continued to crumble from the ceiling, the rumble above them rolling like thunder. With a surge of panic, Triss realized that they were running out of time.

Geralt must have come to the same conclusion.

“Triss!” he shouted hoarsely, “Finish this already!”

Heart in her throat, she reached into the opened chest for the last time. When her fingers ghosted over the remaining bump, she found her suspicions confirmed. There was not one tendril of chaos connected to the hook, it was two. The second one was thin and more delicate, a thread really, intended not to harm but to gently lace unwanted thoughts. She knew its texture the moment she touched it. This was a spell of hers, and with dismay, she realized that there was no way to remove the last barb without removing her spell as well.

May Melitele have mercy on her, he would know.

Debris crumbled from the ceiling, close to where Geralt and Celaena were still fighting. Somehow, Geralt had gotten back to his feet and stood, swaying, as white light flickered around the mage's fingers again. One more blast of magic and the room would collapse. Once more, Geralt slashed at the sorceress, hitting her force field only.

Triss's hands were shaking. She wanted to help him; it was all she had ever wanted. If she didn't act now, they would both suffer for it.

As the light around Celaena's hand flared up again, Triss brushed her fingers over the last barb in Geralt's heart. It dissolved just as easily as the ones before, the final tendril of darkness coming undone. With it, the blaze of energy died around Celaena's fingers, and the greenish dome of protection vanished. Geralt's blade sliced the air in a precise arc, meeting its mark, and Celaena slumped to the floor.

It was done.

Triss stared at the still form on the ground, hands cold. She felt the shift in the air as the curse lifted and the chaos fled from the room, and with it the putrid stench of decay. It took a while until she was able to raise her eyes to meet his.

The look on his face was terrifying.

The walls around them trembled, the earth shook beneath their feet, and just like that the room started to collapse around them. Bricks hit the floor just an arm's-length away from her, deep cracks tearing through the walls. Shaken from his paralysis, Geralt sprinted towards her and grabbed her wrist, pulling her with him.

She couldn't focus, her heart hammered so fast it hurt. He knows, her frantic mind provided. He knows. Incapable of clear thought, she stumbled behind him through collapsing corridors, black obsidian walls cracking and bursting as they hurried back towards the trapdoor from whence they had come. Her foot caught on a piece of rubble and she fell, her knees hitting the ground hard, but she was roughly dragged to her feet again.

Water started to gush in from nowhere, and he still pushed onward, his grip like a vise. He knew he was hurting her; she could feel it in her thoughts, but he was unwilling to let her go. Together, they clambered up the stairs, drenched in cold water, shaking, exhausted and terrified. The moment she took the last stair, she collapsed, screaming the words that would break their mental connection to get them out of here. Back to the real world. It felt like it had been not a second too late.

***

She fell forward with a gasp. Her hands met with cold flagstones as they caught the fall. They had made it out just in time. At least she had. Anxiously, she lifted her head to gaze at Geralt and saw his eyelids flutter as he tumbled from his trance. Trembling, she took hold of his shoulders.

“It's alright,” she mumbled, fearful, her voice so taut it almost hurt to speak. “You're okay. Just open your eyes.”

He did. They were hard, glistening with disbelief and unspeakable hurt.

“What have you done?” His voice was hoarse, the words choked in his throat.

Melitele, what was she to say? There were no words.

“I am sorry.” Her voice almost failed her. “I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to -”

“You didn't mean to – what? Force your will upon me? Use the curse to make me do whatever you goddamn please?”

He shook off her hands with a sharp shrug of his shoulders, making to push up. He stumbled, struggled to find his balance, and when she reached to steady him, he swatted her hand away. She didn't dare to make another attempt, scared of the look in his eyes. He was livid.

“After all that I've been through, don't you think I've been manipulated enough? _Fuck it_ , Triss.”

“Geralt - “

“No!” Spit went flying, rage radiating off him in scalding heat. “You had no right. I trusted you, Triss. I _trusted_ you.”

The worst thing about it was that she deserved it. She deserved every single word. What could she say? That she couldn't stand the thought of losing him? That she feared he was too messed up to make his own decisions? It didn't change a single thing. She had been in the wrong to begin with, and she knew it.

“Out.” His voice was shaking, raw with emotion. “Get the hell out of here.”

He was trembling, if from exhaustion or rage, she couldn't tell. Everything in her wanted to step closer, lend a supporting hand at least. Help him over to settle on the bed before he collapsed and hurt himself. But it was clear he wouldn't tolerate it. Her chest tightened, her eyes filling with tears. She saw wetness glisten in his eyes as well.

“Please forgive me.” She mouthed the words, unable to find her voice, wanting so much to make it better but couldn't think of a way how to.

She stood frozen, helpless, feeling absolutely wretched. His eyes burned with an intensity that was frightening. Then she turned abruptly and fled. Her legs felt so weak, she thought she might not make it out; it didn't even feel like she was walking herself. Blood dinned in her ears and she fumbled with the handle of the door, clumsy, hands numb and ice cold. She stumbled past Jaskier who stared at her, uncomprehending. He hesitated for merely a second, then darted past her into the room.

She was barely aware of mumbled words from inside, just leaned against the wall, throat painfully constricting but unable to cry. She had lost him. She knew that as sure as she was a sorceress. He would never forgive her. Sure, he wasn't dead, but he just as well might be because he would never speak to her again after this. Melitele, the look in his eyes.

Whatever had been between them, she had destroyed it for good. She managed to make her way down the corridor, one hand against the wall, and when she reached the bottom of the stairs, the strength left her. Slowly, she slid down the wall, a sob wrenching from her lips. Tears stung behind her closed lids, and when they started to run down her cheeks, she didn't attempt to wipe them away.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is - the final chapter. I hope I was able to wrap things up in a believable and satisfying way. Thank you for staying with me this long, and have fun reading!
> 
> Also, a big thank you to the lovely Sammys_Girl for her beta work. This has been a bumpy ride at times, and they did a lot to keep me sane.

It had been snowing for hours. Wind lashed mercilessly against the windows, driving swirls of icy flakes before it. The flowerbeds of the temple garden were already buried under several inches of snow and, judging by the leaden sky, there was yet more to come. By now, the pass to Kaer Morhen was surely frozen over, too dangerous to travel. It was too late for the journey home.

Gaze empty, Geralt slumped in his chair and watched the outside world disappear. It wasn't the first winter he'd have to spend away from his brothers, but this time the thought was especially hard to bear. More than ever, he longed for Eskel's good-natured chatter and Lambert's snarks, the quiet reassurance of Vesemir. Sure, they would want to know what weighed on his mind, but they wouldn't press for details, would allow him to just be. With the curse finally lifted, he wished for nothing more than that. Some peace and quiet, and the company of his family to help him heal.

Across the room, Jaskier was perched on the bed, plucking away on his lute. Their previous game of cards lay neglected on the table. The bard had brought it in hopes of lifting his mood, but Geralt had been too distracted to truly enjoy it, and at some point, they had just given up. After a piece of honeycomb cake, which they had shared in silence, Geralt had retreated to the window to dwell on his thoughts.

Tentatively, he flexed the fingers of his injured arm, wincing at the pain it still caused him. However, it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been. One more week, and he would be well enough to travel, not having to depend on the aid of others anymore. A few stitches wouldn't keep him; he would be able to remove them himself once the time came. The most important thing was to get out of this goddamned city as soon as he could. Maybe Brugge would be a good choice, or Sodden. He hadn't been there in a while.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a respectful tap at the door. The lute play stopped.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but you have a visitor.”

A round face had appeared in the open doorway. It was one of the girls who had taken care of him in the past days, helping him change the bandages and apply salve to the cuts that were hard to reach. She gave him a small smile.

“Miss Merigold is here to see you.”

The muscles in his jaw twitched. It wasn't the first time Triss had come to speak with him, and he still had no desire to do so. The mere thought of it made him want to smash something against the wall.

“Tell her to go away.”

The girl gave a small nod.

“That's alright. I'll just tell her to come back some other time.”

“No. Tell her not to come back at all.”

Jaskier shot him a pointed look and the door clicked shut, followed by the sound of departing footfalls. Ignoring the gaze weighing on him, Geralt turned away, silently hoping that Jaskier would get the message. He did not want advice on the matter, thank you very much. This was his business, and his alone.

Jaskier pensively strummed a chord.

“You should talk to her, you know.”

“I'm really not in the mood, Jaskier.”

Geralt glowered at him in a way that would have made any other man shut up. However, the bard seemed completely untroubled.

“You'll have to, eventually,” Jaskier pointed out, plucking a few notes. “Besides, it'll make you feel better.”

Somehow, he doubted that. In the past days, he had done little else besides mulling things over, trying to come to terms with what Triss had done. Sure, she had saved him, he acknowledged that, but she had also manipulated him in a way he could not wrap his head around. The curse had made him vulnerable, mentally and emotionally, and she had taken advantage of it without hesitation. It had been a terrible realization, one that had left him scared and hurt and indescribably angry.

What good would it do to talk to her? She knew perfectly well what she had done. It would be like twisting the knife in the wound, doing more harm than good.

“Stay out of this,” he grumbled. “This is really none of your concern.”

“Geralt, please.” Jaskier let out a sigh. The bed creaked as he shifted to face him properly, putting down his lute. “I'm just trying to help. It's all I've been trying to do the past days, but frankly speaking, I don't think that card games and cake are going to do the trick. You need closure. And you'll only find that by facing the problem.” He paused to give Geralt room for an answer, and when he realized there wouldn't be one, he continued, a hint of frustration edging his voice. “Look at you. The curse is lifted, and you're still a mess. Did you even sleep this night?”

“Talking won't change that.”

“At least give it a try,” he suggested. “Let her explain herself. Have you even considered that there might be two sides of the picture?”

He shot him a dark glance, by now considerably irritated by the bard's insistence.

“You don't even know what you're talking about.”

“What, you think I've never been betrayed?” He paused, thinking things over. “Yes, okay, probably not like that. But that doesn't mean I can't relate. Damn it, Geralt, you need to talk to her. I bet she feels exactly as miserable about this as you. This has been – what? The third time she asked to see you? She cares about you. The least you can do is hear her out.”

“Jaskier -”

The bard effectively cut him off, ignoring the dark look on his face.

“Come on, Geralt. You're a witcher. You face every monster head on. Don't tell me you're afraid to talk to the woman who saved your life.”

That shut him up.

Maybe Jaskier had a point there. Maybe he was afraid, though it escaped him what exactly he what scared him. It was just Triss, after all.

“She's gone by now anyway,” he muttered. “She wouldn't - “

“That, my friend, is just a sorry excuse.” Jaskier jumped to his feet, snagging his jacket from where he had thrown it over the back of the chair. Count on the bard to catch on the exact moment Geralt was about to cave in. He waved his finger in Geralt's direction as if was chiding a bratty schoolboy. “You'd better think about what you want to tell her because I'll be back with her in a sec.”

“Jaskier,” he groaned. “Please don't -”

But the bard was out of the door before he could even finish his sentence.

 _Fuck_.

Muttering a curse under his breath, he pushed to his feet and moved his chair back to the table. With an impatient gesture, he brushed the remaining cake crumbs to the floor, then stowed away the cards, trying to ignore the uneasiness he felt inside. He had no idea what to say to her. Truth be told, right now he would have preferred to face another striga, broken arm and all.

It didn't take long until there was a shy knock at the opened door, and he had to force himself to meet her gaze.

“Triss.”

She looked frail. Her face was reddened from the cold, snowflakes melting in her dark curls and on her cloak.

“Geralt.”

She stood in the doorway, hesitating, unsure whether she was allowed to come in. The haunted look in her eyes hurt him more than he had anticipated, and he firmed his lips in sudden anger. She had no right to feel bad. After all, it was her who had betrayed him. For a moment, he felt the urge of just telling her to get the hell out of here, but deep down, he knew that Jaskier was right. As much as he hated it, this was necessary.

He let out a deep breath, then gestured her to join him at the table. She closed the door behind her. As she sat, a hint of jasmine wafted over to him, the once pleasant scent now bitter and stale. She took her time to work off her velvet gloves, and when she was done, she folded them neatly before placing them on a table before her.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said softly. “I know you didn't want to.”

He glared at her and she bore the unspoken accusation with an air of hopelessness.

“How are you doing?”

The question made him bristle. How the hell did she think he was doing? The fact that he was still in the goddamn healing wing of the temple instead of on the road where he belonged had to speak for itself. Besides, she had no right to be worried about him anymore. Not after what she had done.

“The healing spells must have worn off by now. I can renew them if you'd like. Speed up recovery.”

“I don't think that will be necessary.”

She sighed, lips firming in frustration. He knew his words were hurting her but he couldn't help himself. He was so fucking angry.

“Look, I'm sorry.” The words came out as a whisper. “I know I messed up. I shouldn't have forced your decision on the matter, but I didn't know what else to do. It was the only way to help you, and I couldn't bear the thought of just standing by. Not when the only thing that was keeping you was your concern for me.”

He felt his gut clench at her words. If it had been anybody else, he might have been able to deal with this. He was used to being lied to, to be manipulated, especially when it came to mages. But Triss? He had believed her when she had told him she would respect his decision, no matter what.

“You promised.” His voice was hoarse. “You promised you would not do this without my consent.”

“I know. And I feel terrible about it. But I didn't want to lose you, and when you mentioned suicide - ” She helplessly lifted her shoulders, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Damn it, Geralt. What was I supposed to do? I didn't even know if it was you making the decision or if it was just the curse messing with your mind.”

He set his jaw. The way she said it, she was even making sense. Still, he couldn't help feeling betrayed, violated in the most intimate of ways. She had used her powers to gain access to his most private thoughts, to memories he had never shared with anyone. The fact that he had trusted her made it so much worse.

“Would you do it again?”

He saw her clutch her hands, her face taut with misery.

“What does it matter? What's done is done.”

“It matters a great deal,” he insisted. “If you could turn back time, knowing what you know now, would you do it again?”

She lowered her gaze.

“It was the only way to help you.”

“That's what I thought.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “So much for your heartfelt apology. Damn it, Triss. You above all persons should have known better. All your talk about how magic shouldn't be used to enslave others, and once I don't do as you wish you just snap your fingers and force your will upon me. Really, you are no different than Celaena, or every other mage for that matter. It's all about what _you_ think is right.”

Her eyes shot up, shining with hurt and anger.

“So, you'd rather I'd let you die?”

“Well, at least it would have been my decision.”

She huffed, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Don't tell me you've never used your witcher signs to sway somebody's mind. If you had been in my place, what would you have done? Wouldn't you have gladly put your life on the line to save someone you care for? Even if said person didn't want it?” Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn't cry. Like a soldier, she tried to keep up a brave front, her hands folded so tightly her knuckles turned white. “You know, when I decided to force your decision on the matter, it hurt me as well. It went against everything I believe in. But forced to decide between bending your will and letting you die, I chose the lesser evil.”

He let that sink in. She sounded like she really meant it. Oddly enough, he had to think of Blaviken where he'd had to make a shit choice as well. One that still haunted him.

The memory caused a question to form in the back of his mind, silently and nagging.

“Did you ever plan on telling me?”

His words were quiet, and a pained expression crossed her features.

“I was afraid how you would react.”

At least she was honest about it. Still, it didn't change the fact that she would have kept it from him, and he didn't like the thought one bit. His jaw worked, his shoulders stiff with tension.

“Damn it Geralt, I didn't want to lose you. Can you really blame me for that?” She searched his eyes, begging for an answer.

He remained silent for a while. He could see the dilemma she had found herself in, he wasn't stupid. She had tried to convince him, he remembered that, and he had hated the idea of her getting hurt. In the end, she had risked their budding relationship to make sure he would live. Maybe it had been the better choice.

Then again, she had never planned on telling him, and he was not sure if he could forgive that.

“What's going on in your head right now?” She asked softly. “Please say something.”

He struggled to find the words. He wasn't good at talking about what he felt, he never had been. The conflicting emotions churning in his chest didn't make it any easier.

“Look, Triss,” he began slowly, wrenching the words from his throat. “I am grateful you saved my life, and I thank you for that. But the fact that you went behind my back like that – that you didn't even plan to tell me...” He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. “It hurts more than you can imagine.”

She nodded, face closed off and sad. He realized that she had expected something like this.

“So, where does this leave us?”

He shook his head helplessly.

“I don't know.”

She leaned towards him, tilting her head a little to catch his gaze.

“I love you. You know that, right? And I know you feel the same way. At least you did.” She paused, regret on her face. “But the trust is gone, isn't it.”

She didn't even pose it as a question.

Unable to object, he ran a hand over his face and let go of a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Triss. I don't know if we can fix this.”

“I understand.” She sounded every bit as broken as she looked. “But I'm glad you're alive. And maybe, one day you'll be able to forgive me.”

She moved to lay a hand on his, but her arm didn't quite reach and only their fingers touched. He gazed at her, seeing the devastation written on her face. He knew the words she wanted to hear, the words she needed to hear so badly, but he wouldn't lie. Not about this. So, he said the next best thing and hoped that it would be enough.

“I'll try.”

“That's all I'm asking for.”

She gave him a sad smile and slowly withdrew her hand.

“Do you still trust me enough to open a portal for you? Back to Kaer Morhen?”

His first instinct was to refuse, assuming that she again had read his thoughts uninvited, but then he remembered that she had offered it to begin with. It was the only reason he had agreed to stay in the first place. With the raging snowstorm outside, it was only natural that it would have crossed her mind.

He nodded, grateful for the offer.

“Thank you. I'd appreciate that.”

Relief flooded her eyes, and some of the tension left her shoulders.

“Alright.” She quietly reached for her gloves. “If you change your mind about the healing spell, just let me know.”

***

They met just outside the city gates a few days after. Triss spotted Geralt by the signpost, the hood of his cloak drawn deep into his face, his horse saddled and ready for the journey. Next to him, Jaskier gestured widely, apparently engaged in a lively yet one-sided conversation. He stood with his back to her, but she easily identified him by the bright red breeches that peeked out from under his thick traveling cloak.

Drawing her own fur-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders, she approached in quick strides. Geralt noticed her first, and when he nodded his greeting, Jaskier turned around to face her as well.

“Triss!” The bard exclaimed, a look of absolute delight on his face. His breath made white puffs in the chilly air. “I am so glad you're finally here. It is absolutely freezing, and though I am not exactly a delicate flower, I was starting to worry about my musical fingers.”

He blew on his bare hands as if to emphasize his point.

“Maybe a pair of gloves would be in order then,” she pointed out the obvious.

He gave her a smile. “And here I was, hoping you would cast a warming spell.”

Brows raised, her eyes flickered up to Geralt's, and he nudged the bard from behind.

“You could have stayed at the inn.”

“Nonsense.” Jaskier hid his hands under his cloak with a look of indignation. “It's not _that_ cold.”

Roach shook her head as if to comment and Geralt patted her neck, reaching for her tethers. It was a natural gesture, devoid of the pained stiffness that had accompanied his movements the past days. Triss was surprised how much it relieved her.

“So,” she went on conversationally. “I see you're all ready and set to go.”

From up close, she could see that Geralt looked a lot better indeed. The taut lines of pain had vanished from his face, and so had the shadows beneath his eyes. She couldn't remember when she had last seen him that well-rested. The only thing that gave away his past ordeal was the way he held his arm. She knew that below the fabric of his sleeve, it was still splinted, the bones not yet fully healed.

“Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?”

He shook his head, a white strand of hair hanging into his face.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “You've done more than enough.”

There was no hostility in his voice, but she still felt a stab into her heart. The warmth in his eyes was gone. He was distant, his guarded friendliness little more than what he would have offered any stranger.

She struggled to contain her response, feeling she deserved it. There was nothing she could do to take back what she had done. Sensing Jaskier's eyes resting on them, she didn't want to get back into the argument either. They had said everything that needed to be said. Now, only time would show if they would find the way back to each other. Considering how deeply she had hurt him, she didn't deem it likely though. She could call herself lucky if at any point he'd regard her as a friend again.

“So, it's goodbye then.”

She wanted so badly to pull him close one last time, take his hand at least, but she didn't dare to. He wouldn't welcome it, and to be refused right here in front of Jaskier would make it so much worse. Quietly, she pulled her cloak tighter around her narrow frame, seeking comfort in the warmth it provided.

“Farewell.” He gave her a small smile, then directed his glance at Jaskier. “Thank you, too.”

Jaskier's face brightened. His cheeks were red from the biting wind, his hair a tousled mess. The spark in his eyes told her he was genuinely happy to be awarded a thanks of his own.

“Glad I could help. You sure you don't want me to come along?”

Geralt huffed.

“Kaer Morhen is no place for a bard.”

“Ah, but it's a witcher's castle, so it's got to be full of intriguing stories. What else is there to do in the dark winter months than sitting around the fireplace, sharing one's latest adventures? Surely, not all witchers are as taciturn as you.” He smiled hopefully, and when Geralt's expression remained stony as ever, he shrugged. “Oh, well. Maybe next time. Make sure to see me around in spring. You still owe me a story after all.”

Geralt opened his mouth to protest, but then apparently thought better of it. “I guess, I do.”

“I'll take you by your word, witcher.”

Jaskier's smile widened, and Geralt nodded in confirmation.

“Triss?”

It was time, no sense in delaying things any further. She could cry later. Now she would have to get him home. Shoulders straight, she stepped into the middle of the road and stretched her arms wide, channeling the chaos around her to open the passage. Before them, the air folded in a swirl of colors. Beyond the haze, she could make out the blurred shapes of battlements and towers. A gust of wind brought the earthy scent of the woods, the chill of fresh mountain air.

“Come on, Roach,” Geralt muttered beside her.

He gave her an appreciative nod and walked past her, leading his horse along, and she watched them disappear into the wavering light of the portal. Wind raked her hair as it closed behind him. He was gone.

He was gone and he would never come back.

She swallowed drily, fighting the tears that stung her eyes, and when she was sure to have regained her composure, she turned abruptly and left.

As she made her way back to the city, Jaskier fell into step aside her.

“Wait.”

“I'm not going to warm your hands,” she said irritably, wishing very much for him to leave her alone. Now that she had gotten to know him a little, she wondered how Geralt had formed a friendship with this man of all people. Sure, he was kind-hearted, she could see that, but he could also be terribly annoying. Most of all, he rarely seemed to stop talking. How someone as taciturn and single-minded as Geralt could find his company appealing was completely beyond her.

“I didn't expect you to,” he laughed. “Sorry, sometimes my tongue works faster than my brain.”

The statement was so disarming that it actually mollified her.

“Alright.” She stopped, exhaling a long breath. His smile was gentle in a way she hadn't expected, the look in his eyes warm and sincere. “What do you want from me?”

She really hoped it was something she could deal with quickly. Now that Geralt had left, without so much as a press of her hand or a smile, she felt herself slowly falling apart. Her throat was painfully tight, and all she wanted was to return home, lock the door behind her and allow herself to grieve.

“There's something I wanted to tell you,” he said. A gust of wind ruffled his hair and she could see that his ears were red from the cold. “Maybe this is none of my concern, maybe it doesn't make a difference anyway.” He lifted his shoulders, giving an apologetic smile. “But I wanted you to know that after your falling out with Geralt – and, yes, you don't have to tell me, I probably shouldn't have listened, but you weren't exactly keeping it down, and it was hard not to.” He noticed he was rambling and cut himself off, then started anew. “Anyway. I just wanted you to know that you did the right thing. He might not see it that way, but I do, and I wanted you to thank you for it.” He gave a vague shrug that was accompanied by another smile. “So, thank you for saving him.”

It wasn't what she had expected and she found herself a little overwhelmed. His words were completely inappropriate, she really didn't know him that well, and she was a court mage after all. She shouldn't even be conversing with him about things like that. Still, she couldn't help feeling touched, and some of the tightness in her chest eased. Helplessly, she shook her head.

“I don't know what to say.”

“Well.” It seemed like he was about to suggest something, but then he changed his mind. “I just thought maybe it's some comfort to know that your sacrifice was noticed.”

He softly touched her arm and nodded at her, then plodded along the snowy street towards the city. She lingered for a while, watching his huddled form become smaller in the distance, and when he was finally out of sight, she slowly followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's the end to my second story in the witcher verse. Apologies to all of you who hoped for a happily ever after. I wasn't sure myself how things would turn out between Triss and Geralt until I finished the scene, and in the end I just went with what felt right. 
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, and if you feel like giving me some feedback or share your thoughts, I'd love to hear from you!


End file.
